1  -V  :.,. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


~« 


SOCIAL  AND  LITERARY  PAPERS 


SOCIAL 


AND 


LITERARY    PAPERS 


BY 
CHARLES  CHAUNCY  SHACKFORD 

Emeritus  Professor  in  Cornell  University 


BOSTON 

ROBERTS     BROTHERS 
1892 


Copyright,  1892, 
BY  ROBERTS  BROTHERS. 


JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


NOTE. 

THE  Essays  contained  in  this  volume  were  pre- 
pared for  and  read  before  various  literary  clubs 
and  societies,  mostly  in  Boston  and  its  vicinity. 
Their  printing  was  begun  but  a  short  time  previous 
to  the  death  of  the  Author,  the  proofs  of  less  than 
one  hundred  pages  having  passed  under  his  scru- 
tiny. The  work  of  editorial  supervision  was  then 
committed  to  the  hands  of  Mr.  A.  W.  STEVENS  of 
the  University  Press,  who,  in  prosecuting  the  task, 
has  been  studiously  regardful  of  what  he  believes 
would  have  been  both  the  wish  and  the  deed  of  the 
Author. 

In  closing  his  work,  the  Editor  cannot  refrain 
from  expressing  his  hearty  appreciation  of  the 
great  value  and  timeliness  of  many  of  the  dis- 
cussions carried  on  in  these  pages. 

A.  W.  S. 
APRIL,  1892. 


1125543 


CONTENTS. 


I.  AESCHYLUS  ON  SOME  MODERN  SOCIAL  PROBLEMS  9 

II.  A  SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND  CENTURY    ...  31 

III.  A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY  .    .  61 

IV.  NEMESIS  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY 89 

V.  THE  POPE  IN  "THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK"    .  108 

VI.  BROWNING'S  "!N  A  BALCONY" 116 

VII.  THE  GREEK  COMEDY  OF  MANNERS     ....  126 

VIII.  PLATO'S  REPUBLIC 144 

IX.  ARISTOTLE'S  "  POLITICS  " 160 

X.  SOCIAL  PROGRESS 180 

XI.  SOCIAL  PLANS  AND  PROBLEMS 198 

XII.  SOCIAL  TENDENCIES 220 

XIII.  THE  NATION  AS  AN  ORGANISM  IN  SHAKSPEARE.  242 

XIV.  THE  COMMON  REASON  IN  SOCIAL  REFORMS    .  260 
XV.  HISTORY  AS  DEVELOPMENT 283 


SOCIAL  AND  LITERARY  PAPERS. 


i. 

^SCHYLUS  ON   SOME   MODERN   SOCIAL 
PROBLEMS. 

AESCHYLUS,  the  founder  of  the  Greek  lyric  drama, 
possessed  a  soul  severely  grand  like  that  of  Milton, 
austerely  just  like  that  of  Dante;  and,  like  these 
poets,  he  too  was  drawn  toward  the  religious, 
moral,  and  social  problems  of  his  time  and  of  all 
time.  These  great  masters  of  poetry  are  driven 
by  a  mighty  wind;  they  are  the  voices  of  an  un- 
counted multitude;  and  so  must  it  be  with  all  the 
great  bards  of  the  world's  great  literature. 

No  deeper  problems  occupy  now  the  thought  of 
mankind  than  those  which  make  the  contents  of 
the  "  Prometheus  "  of  ^Eschylus.  There  remains 
to  us  only  one  of  the  parts  of  this  trilogy,  —  the 
second,  or  middle  one, —  and  the  structure  can  be 
completed  only  by  inference ;  but  what  we  have  is 
enough  to  show  the  groundwork  of  the  whole. 

In  the  "  Prometheus  "  is  symbolized  the  progress 
of  the  human  race;  and  under  this  statement  we 
have  a  representation  of  the  poet's  view  of  man's 
relation  to  the  universe,  of  the  advance  of  culture 


10  AESCHYLUS  ON 

and  civilization,  and  of  those  problems  of  might 
and  right,  of  justice  and  equality,  of  those  eternal 
laws  of  progressive  change  for  good,  which  it  is 
the  work  to-day  of  science  to  establish  for  the 
satisfaction  of  man's  reason  and  intellect. 

According  to  the  appearance  that  Nature  pre- 
sents to  the  first  men,  ignorant  of  any  means  of 
protection,  of  defence,  —  what  is  its  aspect  ?  Evi- 
dently, that  of  a  hostile,  tyrannical,  merciless  be- 
ing, —  now  blasting  with  burning  heat,  now  crys- 
tallizing with  icy  cold,  now  sending,  according  to 
his  pleasure,  the  deadly  arrows  of  pestilence,  now 
sapping  the  strength  by  old  age,  and  extinguishing 
all  by  death.  In  social  life  also  are  found  might 
of  arm  and  cunning  of  brain,  securing  to  them- 
selves wealth  and  power,  and  then  plunged  into 
the  lowest  wretchedness, — the  ruler  of  a  people 
begging  his  bread ;  the  dweller  in  palaces  an  out- 
cast in  the  desert,  glad  to  find  shelter  in  a  cave, 
and  share  with  the  wild  beast  its  prey.  Man 
seems  despised  and  hated  by  some  higher  powers. 
The  gods  envy  his  too  great  prosperity :  they  are 
indifferent  to  his  good.  Everywhere  is  the  spec- 
tacle of  triumphant  might,  —  and  of  man,  feeble, 
ignorant,  suffering  under  numberless  ills,  dying 
from  generation  to  generation,  yet  engaged  in  a 
hand-to-hand  struggle  with  this  seemingly  irre- 
sistible force. 

What  must  first  free  him?  Knowledge,  fore- 
sight, the  divine  spark  within  of  aspiration  and 
unconquerable  will  ;  the  never-resting  desire  to 


SOME  MODERN  SOCIAL  PROBLEMS.  1 1 

better  his  condition,  to  find  out  all  secrets,  and 
use  for  himself  every  divine  force,  every  hidden 
power.  Whatever  furthers  this  tendency  to  free 
and  help  humanity  is  man's  friend,  man's  bene- 
factor, man's  divine  protector  and  champion. 

With  a  different  theory  of  the  origin  and  pro- 
gress of  civilization  from  that  which  looked  back 
to  an  age  of  gold,  and  laid  its  paradise  in  some 
far-off  period  of  blessed  innocence  and  of  happy 
contentment  with  the  gods,  yEschylus  describes 
the  early  condition  of  the  human  race  as  but  just 
removed  from  that  of  brutes :  — 

"  They  dwelt 

In  hollowed  holes,  like  swarms  of  tiny  ants 
In  sunless  depths  of  caverns ;  and  they  had 
No  certain  signs  of  winter,  nor  of  spring 
Flower-laden,  nor  of  summer  with  her  fruits. 

And  in  another  place  he  says,  — 

"  I,  poor  I,  through  giving 
Great  gifts  to  mortal  men,  am  prisoner  made 
In  these  fast  fetters;  yea,  in  fennel  stalk 
I  snatched  the  hidden  spring  of  stolen  fire, 
Which  is  to  men  a  teacher  of  all  arts, 
Their  chief  resource." 

In  Prometheus,  then,  is  represented  that  grand 
idea  of  a  progressive  culture,  under  the  sym- 
bolic form  of  a  Titanic  contest  with  the  Ruler 
of  the  world,  the  Power  that  has  seated  itself  by 
mere  force  on  the  throne,  and  who  hates  the  hu- 
man race,  so  that  he  is  willing  to  see  it  perish, 
that  its  place  may  be  supplied  by  creatures  of  his 


12  AESCHYLUS  ON 

own.  In  the  view  of  ^Eschylus,  Zeus  himself  was 
subject  to  a  power  which  he  must  acknowledge,  or 
himself  in  turn  be  overthrown.  This  power,  more- 
over, was  not  the  mere  blank,  rigid  fate  which  is 
often  spoken  of,  —  not  the  blind,  irresistible  chance 
for  which  no  one  could  account,  and  before  which 
each  one  must  quake  and  tremble;  but  this  power 
was  the  Eternal  Justice,  the  law  of  right,  the  ever- 
lasting balance,  harmony,  and  proportion  of  all 
things  human  and  divine,  which  raised  up  the  low 
and  cast  down  the  high,  which  visited  arrogance  with 
humiliation,  which  levelled  every  excess,  and  filled 
up  every  hole  and  cranny  of  the  universe  with  the 
needed  supply.  Prometheus  boldly  contended  for 
right  against  might,  for  the  suffering  against  his 
potent  oppressor,  for  the  vile  worm  against  him 
who  trampled  it  in  the  dust.  He  identified  him- 
self with  the  race  of  men,  was  their  champion  and 
savior;  and  therefore  he  suffered. 

i.  For  the  poet  recognized  the  fundamental  law 
of  all  human  growth  and  progress, — the  law  of 
martyrdom, —  and  has  embodied  it  in  that  godlike 
form  spiked  to  the  bare  Caucasus :  — 

"  Behold  me  bound,  a  god  to  evil  doomed, 
The  foe  of  Zeus,  and  held 
In  hatred  by  all  gods 
Who  tread  the  courts  of  Zeus: 
And  this  for  my  great  love, 
Too  great  for  mortal  men." 

This  law  of  martyrdom  is  seen  in  the  very  con- 
stitution of  the  natural  world.  Each  successive 


SOME  MODERN  SOCIAL    PROBLEMS.  13 

step  of  ascending  life  is  gained  by  the  rendering 
up  of  life  in  that  which  precedes;  growth  comes 
out  of  decay,  life  out  of  death.  The  earth  is  fertile 
because  innumerable  forms  have  lived  and  died. 
The  solidest  rock  is  crumbled  into  finest,  impalpa- 
ble powder  ;  the  hardest  mineral  renders  up  its 
form,  and,  equally  with  the  tenderest  moss  disinte- 
grating at  the  touch,  it  becomes  dissolved  into  dust ; 
plants  springing  from  these  inhale  the  atmosphere 
and  rains  of  heaven  and  ministering  juices  of  the 
soil,  and  then  give  themselves  up  in  turn  to  animal 
and  man.  Each  higher  form  lives  by  the  martyrdom 
of  some  lower,  and  death  is  everywhere  the  price 
of  life.  Is  it  any  different  in  the  moral  and  social 
spheres?  Is  not  the  present  civilization  of  the 
world  —  its  knowledge,  art,  comfort,  well-being — . 
the  result  of  innumerable  sorrows  and  deaths  ?  Is 
not  every  stone  of  the  foundation  and  every  joint  of 
the  rising  superstructure  cemented  by  blood  of  the 
body,  blood  of  the  mind,  blood  of  the  very  heart 
and  soul  of  the  noblest  of  the  race  in  every  age 
and  among  every  people,  from  the  earliest  moment 
until  this  very  hour  in  which  we  breathe  our  little 
lives?  Not  alone  upon  the  battle-field,  the  gibbet, 
the  cross,  — not  alone  in  dungeons  and  filthy  pris- 
on-cells, have  martyrs  struggled  and  suffered  for 
the  good  of  man;  but  on  sea  and  in  the  wilderness, 
in  the  workshop  and  the  study,  the  pioneer  of  truth 
has  swung  his  axe,  has  gazed  into  the  heavens,  has 
pored  over  the  annals  of  the  past,  has  delved  and 
toiled,  has  despaired  and  hoped  again,  has  seen  the 


!4  &SCHYLUS  ON 

stars  rise  and  set,  the  sun  pursue  his  daily  course, 
and  seasons  come  and  go,  — still  eager  for  the  com- 
ing truth,  watch  ing  for  the  new  day,  looking  through 
tearful  eyes  for  a  light  that  no  mortal  eye  has  ever 
seen,  a  good  that  his  own  soul  whispers  shall  one 
day  be  the  heritage  of  all  his  fellow-men. 

This    law  of  life  Fichte   has   thus  enunciated: 

"  Nothing  individual  can  live  in  itself  or  for  itself,  but 
all  live  in  the  whole ;  and  this  whole  unceasingly  dies  for 
itself  in  unspeakable  love,  that  it  may  rise  again  in  new 
life.  This  is  the  spiritual  law :  all  that  comes  into  being 
falls  a  sacrifice  to  an  eternally  increasing  and  ascending 
life ;  and  this  law  constantly  rules  over  all,  without  waiting 
for  the  consent  of  any.  Here  alone  lies  the  distinction,  — 
whether  man  allow  himself  to  be  led,  with  the  halter  round 
his  neck,  like  a  beast  to  the  slaughter,  or  freely  and  nobly 
brings  his  life  a  gift  to  the  altar  of  the  eternal  life,  in  the  full 
fore-enjoyment  of  the  life  which  is  to  arise  from  its  ashes." 

Does  a  man,  then,  really  want  to  do  good  to 
man?  What  must  he  look  for?  Martyrdom, — 
that  is,  he  must  himself  share  in  the  suffering 
that  he  would  relieve;  he  must  himself  take  upon 
his  own  shoulders  the  burden  he  would  remove. 
The  depth  of  his  suffering  must  be  in  proportion 
to  the  wretchedness  he  alleviates.  The  cup  of 
human  woe,  who  can  drink  it  off?  Yet  it  must 
be  drunk  off;  and  because  it  must,  Zeus  was  called 
tyrant,  usurper,  regardless  of  the  welfare  of  the 
race  of  men.  So  he  seemed  to  the  earliest  rude 
view;  but  this  view  recedes,  and,  as  man  sees  the 
real  blessedness  of  the  law,  it  is  the  law  not  of 


SOME  MODERN  SOCIAL  PROBLEMS.  \  5 

death,  but  of  life.     ^Eschylus  himself,  in  another 
drama,  "The  Suppliants,"  says,  — 

"  All  that  God  works  is  effortless  and  calm ; 
Seated  on  loftiest  throne, 
Thence,  though  we  know  not  how, 
He  works  his  perfect  will." 

Again,  the  poet  addresses  him  as  "  blest  above  all 
blessed  ones,"  as  - 

"  Our  Father,  author  of  our  life, 
Directing  all  his  plans,  — 
The  great  Master  workman,  Zeus." 

All  the  great  legends  of  mythology  recognize 
this  law,  and  thus  show  its  universality.  The 
hero,  to  save  his  country,  must  leap  into  the 
yawning  chasm.  The  serpent  cannot  be  slain 
unless  its  slayer  receives  a  fatal  hurt.  The  be- 
leagured  city  can  be  taken,  but  the  price  of  vic- 
tory is  the  death  of  the  beloved  chief.  To  benefit 
man,  the  gods  themselves  must  be  incarnate,  and 
share  his  daily  life. 

But  more  significant  than  all  is  this  story  of 
Prometheus,  the  god-descended  lover  of  the  mis- 
erable race  of  men,  who  brings  to  them  fire,  the 
arts,  the  gifts,  which  ennoble  and  bless  humanity. 
But  the  price  must.be  paid.  His  heart  is  devoured 
only  to  be  perpetually  renewed.  The  thunderbolt 
sinks  him  to  Hades.  He  sinks,  crying  out, — 

"  O  Mother  venerable  ! 
O  ^Ether!  rolling  round, 
The  common  light  of  all, 
See  ye  what  wrongs  I  bear? " 


1 6  &SCHYLUS  ON 

Have  we  any  solution  to  this  problem  of  the 
ages  ?  Can  we  do  good  on  any  other  terms  ?  Be  a 
reformer,  if  you  will;  but  nothing  will  be  reformed 
unless  you  bear  in  your  own  heart  and  mind  and 
soul  the  evil  you  would  remove.  Work  for  the 
sorrowing,  the  debased,  the  oppressed,  under  any 
form,  and  the  good  will  be  in  proportion  to  the 
bitter  ingredients  that  fill  one's  own  cup.  By  no 
high  road  of  science  have  we  yet  escaped  the 
operation  of  this  universal  necessity.  The  an- 
swer to  the  problem  is  found  only  in  the  higher 
law  of  love,  which  transforms  the  external  pain 
into  the  highest  spiritual  blessedness. 

In  Prometheus  the  poet  has  symbolized  human- 
ity endowed  with  a  divine  spark  of  intelligence, 
raised  by  this  above  the  brute,  eager  for  all 
knowledge,  resisting  all  demands  that  he  shall 
unconditionally  submit  and  bow  himself  in  hu- 
mility before  the  crushing  might  of  Nature  and 
natural  forces,  —  believing,  against  all  the  threats 
of  pain  and  all  the  wretchedness  hurled  upon  his 
head,  that  he  shall  yet  triumph  and  be  blessed. 
Prometheus  trusts  in  the  prophetic  utterance  of 
his  mother,  Themis;  that  is,  in  righteous  Order, 
holy  Justice,  harmonious  Law. 

The  tender-hearted  ocean-nymphs  tell  him  he 
has  sinned,  though  "a  mist  of  fear  and  full  of 
tears  comes  o'er  their  eyes."  The  rough  but 
friendly  Oceanus  comes  to  advise  him  "to  know 
himself  and  fit  himself  to  words  full  new,"  to 
"humble  himself  and  recognize  in  his  suffering 


SOME  MODERN  SOCIAL  PROBLEMS.  \J 

the  punishment  of  his  over-lofty  speech."  The 
facile  Hermes,  messenger  of  Zeus,  bids  him  "be 
wise,  and  not  to  think  that  self-willed  pride  shall 
ever  prove  better  than  good  counsel. "  The  chorus, 
too,  chants  the  beauty  of  implicit  obedience  to  the 
enthroned  power  that  rules  by  might,  and  not  by 
right :  — 

"  Sweet  is  it  in  strong  hope 

To  spend  long  years  of  life, 

With  bright  and  cheering  joy 

Our  heart's  thoughts  nourishing. 

I  shudder,  seeing  thee 

Thus  vexed  and  harassed  sore 

By  twice  ten  thousand  woes  ; 

For  thou  in  pride  of  heart, 

Having  no  fear  of  Zeus, 

In  thine  own  obstinacy, 

Dost  show  for  mortal  men 

Affection  over-great, 

Prometheus,  —  yea,  too  great." 

An  eminent  commentator,  the  Rev.  Edward  H. 
Plumptre,  adds  his  voice  to  that  of  these  poor 
comforters  of  the  mighty  sufferer,  saying  that 
^Eschylus  here  embodied  "  the  truth  that  the  first 
result  of  the  possession  and  the  consciousness 
of  enlarged  powers  is  a  new  self-assertion,  the 
spirit  of  independence  and  rebellion  against  the 
control  of  a  divine  order,  the  'many  inventions  ' 
that  tend  to  evil,  an  outburst  of  impiety  and  law- 
lessness, needing  the  discipline  of  punishment  be- 
fore it  can  be  brought  round  again  into  a  nobler 
harmony." 

How  completely  does  this  utterance  chime  with 


1 8  AESCHYLUS  ON 

the  words  put  into  the  mouth  of  the  chorus !  "  Re- 
bellion against  a  divine  order,"  "self-assertion, 
many  inventions  tending  to  evil,"  says  the  Eng- 
lish clergyman.  "  Pride  of  heart,  having  no  fear 
of  Zeus,"  sang  the  temporizing  chorus.  How 
much  easier  and  sweeter  to  conform,  to  sign  the 
accepted  creed,  to  enjoy  what  goods  the  present 
ruling  gods  vouchsafe,  than  to  follow  the  highest 
inspiration,  to  do  the  good  deed  and  speak  the 
protesting  word  that  leads  to  social  martyrdom! 
"Rebellion  against  the  control  of  a  divine  order." 
Not  such  is  the  representation  of  ^Eschylus,  whose 
Zeus,  in  the  "  Prometheus,"  was  only  a  divine  order 
in  the  making,  not  the  father  and  maintainer  of  the 
harmonious  order  of  the  world,  whom  he  elsewhere 
presents.  The  Greek  god  was  in  a  process  of  evo- 
lution, as  well  as  the  Greek  world  and  the  Greek 
man.  Out  of  primeval  chaos  and  night,  out  of  the 
contending  powers  of  Nature  and  the  fierce  ten- 
dencies of  men,  was  to  be  finally  established  that 
law  of  which  "no  less  is  acknowleged  than  that 
her  seat  is  the  bosom  of  God,  her  voice  the  har- 
mony of  the  world,  to  whom  all  things  in  heaven 
and  earth  do  homage,  the  very  least  as  feeling  her 
care,  and  the  greatest  as  not  exempted  from  her 
power, —  all,  with  uniform  consent,  admiring  her 
as  the  mother  of  their  peace  and  joy." 

Many,  many  ages  were  to  pass  away  before  this 
could  be  established  in  the  mind  and  heart  of 
the  race.  Meanwhile,  humanity  must  suffer,  and 
could  only  be  redeemed  by  "self-assertion,"  by 


SOME  MODERN  SOCIAL  PROBLEMS.  19 

protest  against  unjust  might,  against  every  form 
of  evil  and  wrong ;  by  the  suffering  of  those 
content  to  renounce  "bright  and  cheering  joys," 
and  in  what  friends  often,  as  well  as  foes,  pro- 
nounce a  spirit  of  rebellion,  maintaining  unflinch- 
ingly their  own  independence,  their  own  deepest 
inspiration. 

What  does  that  leader  of  all  conservatism  —  the 
Papal  power  —  say  to-day  of  the  progress  of  science, 
the  speculations  of  the  intellect,  and  the  investi- 
gations into  Nature's  laws?  "It  is  an  ungodly 
spirit  of  rebellion  against  the  control  of  a  divine 
order;"  it  is  "a  restless  spirit  of  dissatisfaction 
that  seeks  out  'many  inventions;'1  it  is  "that 
unholy  curiosity  which  would  be  wise  above  what 
is  written,  and  which  is  leading  men  —  a  deceptive 
will-o'-the-wisp — into  the  swamps  of  worldliness 
and  utter  despair."  The  divine  spark  is  not  in 
humanity,  but  in  the  Church.  The  inspiration  of 
God  is  not  in  the  hearts  of  men,  but  in  an  estab- 
lished organization.  The  salvation  is  not  in  knowl- 
edge, but  in  faith.  The  praiseworthy  act  is  not  to 
seek  the  well-being  and  happiness  of  man,  but  to 
acquiesce,  without  murmuring,  in  the  commands  of 
the  mighty  Zeus. 

Such,  under  modified  forms,  is  everywhere  the 
same  warning  of  a  timorous  conservatism.  Who- 
ever distrusts  human  reason;  whoever  fears  the 
advance  of  humanity  in  all  that  relates  to  the 
principles  of  equality,  justice,  and  truth;  whoever 
believes  that  man  must  be  forever  kept  down  by 


20  AESCHYLUS  ON 

authority,  by  appeals  to  fear,  and  by  manacles  of 
restraint,  —  whoever  he  may  be,  and  under  what- 
soever name  he  may  intrench  himself,  he  belongs 
to  that  class  who  would  say  to  Prometheus  in  the 
words  of  the  shifty  Hermes,  — 

"Search  well,  be  wise,  nor  think  that  self-willed  pride 
Shall  ever  better  prove  than  counsel  good. 

2.  In  ^Eschylus  further  is  to  be  found  that 
principle  of  which  we  hear  so  much  at  the  present 
day, —  the  law  of  heredity;  a  law  as  absolute  as 
fate,  destiny,  irresistible  necessity.  The  doom 
hovers  over  a  race.  The  terrible  and  avenging 
Furies  cannot  be  escaped,  because  not  merely  the 
ancient  crime,  but  the  ancient  tendency  to  crime, 
survives,  and  at  last  works  out  the  final  retribu- 
tion,—  the  purification  of  the  evil  stain  from  the 
earth.  The  evil-doer  fills  up  the  cup  of  sin;  and 
not  until  he  does  fill  this  up  freely,  and  from  the 
groundwork  of  his  own  self-determined  will,  does 
the  fearful  vengeance  descend  upon  his  head. 
Thus  the  chorus  chants  in  the  Oresteia:  — 

"  Because  of  blood  that  mother  earth  has  drunk, 
The  guilt  of  slaughter  that  will  vengeance  work 
Is  fixed  indelibly; 
And  Ate,  working  grief, 
Permits  awhile  the  guilty  one  to  wait, 
That  so  he  may  be  full  and  overflow 
With  all-devouring  ill." 

No!  with  him  there  is  no  background  of  cause- 
less fatality  from  which  there  is  no  escape,  and 


SOME  MODERN  SOCIAL  PROBLEMS.  2  I 

which  works  at  random  with  its  fearful  hurling  of 
the  thunderbolt  at  a  venture. 

Neither  does  he  give  that  older  view  of  the  gods 
as  envying  the  too  great  prosperity  of  a  mortal 
man,  whom  therefore  they  thrust  down  from  his 
lofty  pinnacle  of  happiness.  Only  as  riches  and 
power  brought  with  them  arrogance  and  lawless 
freedom  in  evil,  only  as  presumptuous  insolence 
followed  upon  unmeasured  prosperity,  did  the  un- 
sleeping eye  of  a  righteous  justice  strike  down  and 
annihilate  the  offender.  What  can  be  clearer  in 
statement  than  the  choral  strophe,  — 

"  There  lives  a  saying,  framed  in  olden  days, 
In  memories  of  men,  that  high  estate 
Full  grown  brings  forth  its  young,  nor  childless  dies ; 
And  that  from  great  success 
Springs  to  the  race  a  woe  insatiable. 
But  I,  apart  from  all, 
Hold  this  my  creed  alone : 
That  impious  act  it  is  that  offspring  breeds, 
Like  to  their  parent  stock  ; 
For  still  in  every  house 
That  loves  the  right,  their  fate  for  evermore 
Hath  issue  good  and  fair." 

Yes;  man  inherits  the  tendencies  to  vice,  to 
evil-doing,  to  insanity,  to  drunkenness,  to  folly, 
as  well  as  tendencies  to  virtue,  to  right-doing  and 
right-feeling,  to  purity  and  moral  strength.  The 
old  poet  has  not  misinterpreted  or  misapplied  the 
great  social  law  that  lies  at  the  basis  of  much  of 
the  philanthropic  effort  of  to-day.  He  has  echoed 
and  re-echoed  its  fearful  truth ;  and  so  much  of  a 


22  JESCHYLUS  ON 

remorseless  fate  as  lurks  in  the  assertion  of  the 
modern  philanthropist,  the  modern  scientific  sta- 
tist, so  much  and  no  more  pervades  his  stately 
verse.  No  more  of  a  fate,  blind  and  resistless, 
hovers  with  black  wings  over  his  rhythmical  page 
than  over  that  of  Shakspeare.  In  both  we  can 
clearly  read  the  law  of  heredity,  and  the  overrul- 
ing powers  of  justice  and  of  right.  In  both  are 
presented  the  same  essential  facts;  but  they  are 
presented  from  different  sides, —  in  ^Eschylus  from 
the  divine,  and  in  Shakspeare  from  the  human  side ; 
but  in  both  is  the  working  out  of  the  same  har- 
monious order,  the  restoring  of  the  same  equal 
balance  of  unerring  retribution.  In  neither  can 
any  hopeful  struggle  be  made  against  the  higher 
decrees  of  wisdom,  order,  justice,  and  truth.  In 
Shakspeare  we  see  that  no  man  can  flee  from 
himself;  in  ^Eschylus,  that  no  man  can  flee  from 
Zeus : — 

"  Hard  are  these  things  to  judge  : 
The  spoiler  shall  be  spoiled, 
The  slayer  pay  his  debt ; 
Yea,  while  Zeus  liveth  through  the  ages,  this 
Lives  also,  —  that  the  doer  bear  his  deed  ; 
For  this  is  Heaven's  decree. 
Who  now  can  drive  from  out  the  kingly  house 
The  brood  of  curses  dark  ? 
The  house  to  Ate  cleaves" 

That  is  why  she  cannot  be  driven  out,  because 
the  house  cleaves  to  her,  and  not  because  she 
cleaves  to  the  house. 

Matthew   Arnold,    quoting    this    passage    from 


SOME  MODERN  SOCIAL   PROBLEMS.  23 

Davison,  "Conscience  and  the  present  constitution 
of  things  are  not  corresponding  terms :  it  is  con- 
science and  the  issue  of  things  which  go  together," 
remarks :  — 

"  It  is  so ;  and  this  is  what  makes  the  spectacle  of  hu- 
man affairs  so  edifying  and  so  sublime.  The  world  goes 
on,  nations  and  men  arrive  and  depart  with  varying  for- 
tune, as  it  appears,  with  time  and  chance  happening  unto 
all.  Look  a  little  deeper,  and  you  will  see  that  one  strain 
runs  through  it  all :  nations  and  men,  whoever  is  ship- 
wrecked is  shipwrecked  on  conduct.  It  is  the  God  of 
Israel  steadily  and  irresistibly  asserting  himself,  —  the 
Eternal  that  loveth  righteousness" 

What  is  this  but  another  expression  of  the  Greek 
poet's  view:  "While  Zeus  liveth  through  the  ages, 
this  lives  also,  —  that  the  doer  bear  his  deed  "  ? 
What  but  an  echo,  from  a  different  summit,  of 
that  strain  which  runs  through  all  humanity,  be- 
cause in  humanity  there  is  one  inspiring  life? 

3.  To-day,  again,  we  have  the  problem  dis- 
cussed of  the  accumulation  and  distribution  of 
wealth;  but  it  is  not  new.  The  particular  form 
under  which  it  comes  is  adapted  to  our  age;  but 
the  instability  of  that  wealth  gained  by  unjust 
means,  by  means  that  disturbed  the  harmony  of 
the  social  order,  was  loudly  proclaimed  by  our 
poet,  making  the  burden  of  many  a  chorus.  He 
speaks  of  the  vision  of  truth  which  is  manifest  to 
the  children 

"  Of  those  who,  overbold, 
Breathed  raging  war  beyond  the  bounds  of  right ; 


24  AESCHYLUS  ON 

Their  houses  overfilled  with  precious  store 

Above  the  golden  mean. 

For  still  there  is  no  bulwark  strong  in  wealth 

Against  destruction's  doom, 

To  one  who,  in  the  pride  of  wantonness, 

Spurns  the  great  altar  of  the  Right  and  Just." 

Ah,  well!  there  are  other  means  to-day  of  ac- 
cumulating unjust  wealth,  of  towering  above  the 
golden  mean,  besides  laying  under  contribution 
friendly  cities,  and  sacking  the  rich  strongholds 
of  neighboring  allies.  There  are  unjust  monopo- 
lies, grinding  oppressions  of  capital  and  machin- 
ery, vast,  legalized  means  of  sucking  up  the  life- 
blood  of  the  community,  by  which  millions  upon 
millions  are  piled  up  for  the  few,  while  the  great 
mass  is  sunk  in  poverty,  vice,  and  ignorance.  Oh 
for  some  ^Eschylus  to  thunder  out  in  his  majestic 
chorus,  — 

"  And  the  dark-robed  Erinnys,  in  due  time, 
By  adverse  chance  of  life, 

Place  him  who  prospers  through  unrighteousness 
In  gloom  obscure  ;  and  once  among  the  unseen, 
There  is  no  help  for  him. 
Fame  in  excess  is  but  a  perilous  thing; 
For  on  men's  quivering  eyes 
Is  hurled  by  Zeus  the  blinding  thunderbolt. 
I  praise  the  good  success 
That  rouses  not  God's  wrath." 

The  children  find  out.  Yes !  Is  not  that  true  of 
thousands  of  our  richest  men,  whose  children  pass 
miserable  lives  of  selfish  egoism,  cynical  in  their 
excess  of  idle  luxury,  killing  time  as  they  can  in 
amateur  nothings,  —  weary  of  themselves,  weary  of 


SOME   MODERN  SOCIAL   PROBLEMS.  2$ 

the  world,  even  if  not  steeped  in  drunkenness  and 
vice?  Alas  for  the  children  of  those  whose  houses 
are  "0wfilled  with  precious  store  above  the  golden 
mean," — that  golden  mean  which,  through  a  wise 
and  just  distribution  by  means  of  a  true  science  of 
economy  and  an  organization  of  industry  and  all 
social  appliances,  might  be  the  heritage  of  all. 
Another  age,  looking  through  a  purer  medium, 
shall  brand  many  of  our  present  arrangements  and 
institutions  as  unrighteous  as  were  those  Athenian 
military  expeditions, —  so  honorable  then,  so  en- 
riching to  those  who  signalized  themselves  by  cun- 
ning stratagem,  -by  valorous  deed,  by  a  marvellous 
success. 

4.  Again,  the  social  science  of  to-day  busies 
itself  with  the  question  of  health.  The  poet 
propounds  the  same  problem :  — 

"  Of  high,  o'erflowing  health 
There  is  no  limit  fixed  that  satisfies ; 
For  evermore  disease,  as  neighbor  close 
Whom  but  a  wall  divides, 
Upon  it  presses  ;  and  man's  prosperous  state 
Moves  on  its  course  and  strikes 
Upon  an  unseen  rock." 

This  unseen  rock  science  would  get  the  sound- 
ings of,  and  mark  its  place  upon  the  chart,  even  if 
it  cannot,  by  means  of  gunpowder  or  yet  more 
explosive  substance,  blow  it  to  atoms.  Chance, 
fate,  necessity,  no  more  rules  there  than  it  does 
in  the  lives  and  fortunes  of  men.  But  this  the 
poet  did  not  see.  How  many  see  it  now?  How 
many  recognize  health  as  the  normal  state,  the 


26  &SCHYLUS  ON 

possible  possession  of  all,  and  disease  as  the  self- 
imposed  burden  of  ignorance  and  sin, —  that  in- 
herited curse  which  shall  last  only  so  long  as  the 
house  cleaves  to  Ate ;  only  so  long  as  man,  by  his 
own  wilful  folly  and  voluntary  transgression,  in- 
vites the  company  of  the  avenging  Fates? 

5.  Again,  among  the  problems  of  to-day  there 
is  none  more  striking  than  that  of  the  union  of 
those  who  think  themselves  suffering  great  social 
wrongs,  and  who  in  their  union  find  solace  and 
strength.  The  great  law  of  human  fellowship,  of 
like  experience  and  a  common  destiny,  binds  them 
together.  The  fact  itself  is  a  significant  sign; 
and  the  occasional  excesses  of  a  new-found  strength 
should  not  blind  us  to  the  real  importance  and  the 
essential  necessity,  in  an  advancing  civilization,  of 
this  brotherhood  of  the  suffering,  this  voicing  of 
their  complaints.  Where  is  their  hope,  if  not  in 
themselves?  It  is,  too,  for  the  advantage  of  all 
that  every  wrong  shall  be  righted,  every  evil  re- 
moved ;  that  every  faculty  of  every  human  being  for 
enjoyment  and  improvement  shall  be  unfolded  to 
its  full  capacity  and  its  utmost  extent.  Grudge 
not,  then,  this  fellowship  of  suffering,  aspiration, 
and  effort.  The  ancient  poet,  by  the  intuition  of 
genius,  brings  together  from  remote  parts  of  the 
earth  the  two  colossal  sufferers  by  the  tyranny  of 
Zeus,  —  the  frenzy-smitten  lo  and  the  tortured 
Pjometheus.  By  an  unconscious  and  invisible  at- 
traction, lo  is  brought  to  the  rock  to  which  the 
indomitable  sufferer  is  nailed,  and  exclaims,  — 


SOME  MODERN  SOCIAL  PROBLEMS.  2J 

"  Ah,  who  of  all  that  suffer,  born  to  woe, 
Have  trouble  like  the  pain  that  I  endure  ? 
But  thou  make  clear  to  me 
What  yet  for  me  remains,  — 
What  remedy,  what  healing,  for  my  pangs. 
Show  me,  if  thou  dost  know  ; 
Speak  out  and  tell  to  me, 
The  maid  by  wanderings  vexed." 

Prometheus  unfolds  the  future  to  her  by  pro- 
phetic insight,  and  describes  to  her  the  course  and 
ending  of  her  untold  torments,  urging  her  to  un- 
fold "the  tale  of  her  great  woe,"  saying, — 

"  To  bewail  and  moan  one's  evil  chance 
Here  where  one  trusts  to  gain  a  pitying  tear 
From  those  who  hear,  —  this  is  not  labor  lost." 

It  is  a  human  touch  which  might,  one  would  think, 
justify  itself  even  to  those  purblind  critics  who 
call  this  an  episode,  and  who  would,  had  they  been 
consulted,  have  created  a  better  poem  than  that  of 
yEschylus!  But  it  needs  no  justification  as  an 
integral  and  vital  part  of  the  perfect  fabric.  It 
is  the  symbolic  cry  of  the  human  heart  for  some 
sympathy  with  its  woes,  of  that  suffering  in  com- 
mon which  makes  the  whole  world  kin. 

By  the  same  sympathetic  bond  the  strong  Titan 
is  drawn  towards  other  sufferers.  In  the  midst 
of  his  own  pangs,  he  says:  — 

"  Lo  !  my  mind  is  wearied  with  the  grief 
Of  that  my  kinsman,  —  Atlas,  —  who  doth  stand 
In  the  far  west,  supporting  on  his  shoulders 
The  pillars  of  the  earth  and  heaven,  —  a  burden 


28  AESCHYLUS  ON 

His  arms  can  ill  but  hold.     I  pity,  too, 

The  giant  dweller  of  Kilikian  caves, 

A  helpless,  powerless  carcase,  near  the  strait 

Of  the  great  sea,  fast  pressed  beneath  the  roots 

Of  ancient 


Yes:  towards  all  these  whom  "the  unsleeping 
thunder-bolt  of  Zeus  "  has  struck  down  he  is  drawn 
with  tenderest  pity.  So,  on  the  bare  heath,  with 
the  thunder  bursting  around  him,  and  amidst  the 
flashings  of  lightning  and  the  tempest,  the  crazed 
Lear,  before  he  accepts  the  shelter  of  the  miser- 
able hovel,  expresses  the  new  feeling  of  sympathy 
with  the  wretched  :  — 

"Poor,  naked  wretches,  wheresoe'er  you  are 
That  bide  the  pelting  of  this  pitiless  storm, 
How  shall  your  houseless  heads  and  unfed  sides, 
Your  looped  and  windowed  raggedness,  defend  you 
From  seasons  such  as  these  ?     Oh,  I  have  ta'en 
Too  little  care  of  this.     Take  physic,  Pomp  ! 
Expose  thyself  to  feel  what  wretches  feel, 
That  thou  may'st  shake  the  superflux  to  them, 
And  show  the  heavens  more  just." 

The  heavens  more  just  ?  Are  the  bountiful  heavens 
to  blame?  Is  not  the  earth  fertile,  and  the  means 
of  good  sufficient  for  all  ?  When  the  superflux  shall 
be  wisely  distributed,  will  that  dumb  sorrow  which 
pains  so  many  hearts  be  turned  into  gladness,  and 
those  muttered  curses  that  well  up  from  so  many 
quivering  souls  be  changed  into  benedictions. 

6.    The  last  problem  brought  under  our  view  is 
that  of  labor,  —  by  many,  indeed,  regarded  as  the 


SOME  MODERN  SOCIAL  PROBLEMS.  29 

question  which  transcends  all  others,  and  which 
concerns  more  immediately  and  more  intimately 
the  well-being  of  humanity.  What  has  ^Eschylus 
to  do  with  that  ?  Is  that  embraced  under  his  grand, 
symbolic  picture?  Why  not?  His  theme  in  the 
"  Prometheus  "  is  the  godlike  element  in  man,  — 
its  protests,  its  struggles,  and  its  final  triumph; 
and  how  could  it  be  that  this  force,  labor,  the  ap- 
plication of  man's,  strength  of  arm,  of  his  power 
to  work,  of  the  employment  of  muscular  vigor  and 
all  his  bodily  energies, — that  this  great  necessity 
should  not  enter  into  his  view?  Humanity,  or 
Prometheus  with  his  unbending  will,  his  far-reach- 
ing intelligence,  his  reckless  love,  is  freed  from 
the  bird  of  Jove  that  daily  feeds  upon  his  liver  by 
Hercules,  whose  heroic  title  was  the  labor  of  his 
own  strong  arm,  his  broad  chest,  his  brawny  mus- 
cles, his  thick  neck.  He  slays  the  ravaging  lion, 
the  venomous  hydra,  the  savage  wild  boar,  the 
death-dealing  birds,  the  carnivorous  monsters; 
cleanses  the  Augean  stables,  and  finally  brings 
up  from  hell  itself  its  fearful  guardian.  Intelli- 
gence by  itself  alone  is  fettered,  is  powerless ;  but 
intellect  and  labor  combined  are  the  essentials  of 
human  progress.  And  how  was  this  labor-hero, 
this  god  of  work,  equipped  for  his  task?  He  re- 
ceived his  helmet  from  Minerva,  his  sword  from 
Mercury,  his  horse  from  Neptune,  his  arrows  from 
Apollo,  and  his  golden  cuirass  from  Vulcan.  That 
is,  labor  —  endowed,  equipped,  furnished  with  the 
gifts,  the  graces,  the  appliances  of  art,  of  commerce, 


3O  SOME  MODERN  SOCIAL   PROBLEMS. 

of  intelligent  skill — frees  humanity  from  its  evils 
and  its  foes  in  the  air  above  and  on  the  earth,  and 
even  from  the  hell  under  the  earth. 

In  the  concluding  part  of  the  dramatic  trilogy  of 
"Prometheus,"  the  heroic  Titan,  after  thousands  of 
years,  becomes  reconciled  with  a  reconciled  Zeus, 
and  sits  down  with  the  Olympian  gods  at  a  grand 
marriage  feast  in  the  abode  of  the  Immortals, — the 
highest  symbol  that  the  inspired  imagination  can 
set  forth  of  the  glory  and  blessedness  of  a  race 
redeemed  by  knowledge,  redeemed  by  labor ;  every 
faculty,  every  aspiration,  every  work,  made  blessed 
and  divine. 


II. 

A  SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND  CENTURY. 

LUCIAN  lived  in  the  age  of  the  Antonines,  in  the 
second  century  of  our  era,  —  an  age  which  Gibbon 
has  pronounced  to  be  the  one  that  he  should  select 
as  the  most  prosperous  and  happy  of  all  the  his- 
torical ages  of  the  world.  On  the  surface  it  looks 
so.  It  was  a  time  of  external  order,  of  general, 
peaceful  intercourse,  and  of  great  cities  in  the 
East  and  the  West,  —  from  Egypt  to  Gaul,  —  with 
schools  of  philosophy  and  art,  where  letters  were 
cultivated,  and  refinement  was  the  fashion. 

Among  the  literary  men  of  that  age,  none  stands 
more  prominent  than  Lucian  of  Samosata,  the  capi- 
tal of  the  northern  province  of  Syria,  on  the  west- 
ern side  of  the  river  Euphrates,  whose  inhabitants 
spoke  the  Grecian  language.  Lucian,  an  accom- 
plished scholar,  wrote  almost  pure  classic  Greek. 
Educated  to  the  law,  in  his  mature  years  he 
accumulated  a  large  fortune  by  his  lectures  on 
philosophy,  literature,  and  religion.  A  genuine 
product  of  his  times,  he  reveals  them  to  us  better 
than  could  any  historical  essay.  He  shows  that 
it  was  a  period  of  general  dissolution  of  the  old 
religions,  and  that  the  soil  was  ready  to  receive  a 
new  positive  faith, — that  Christianity  required  no 


32        A   SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY. 

miracles  to  make  it  flourish,  but  found  everywhere 
congenial  helps. 

Lucian  was  the  great  satirist  of  his  time;  he 
laughed  at  religion,  at  philosophy  of  every  sect 
and  kind.  He  believed  neither  in  God  nor  phi- 
losophers, and  covers  every  sacred  rite,  every 
philosophical  school,  every  tradition  of  the  gods, 
and  every  theoretical  speculation  in  regard  to  a 
divine  existence  and  future  life  with  unrestrained 
ridicule.  He  has  been  called  the  Voltaire  of  his 
age;  but  he  is  rather  the  Robert  Ingersol  raised 
to  the  nth  power. 

Let  us  transport  ourselves  into  the  Roman  prov- 
ince of  Syria,  about  the  year  135  of  our  Christian 
era.  An  inhabitant  of  the  city  of  Samosata  is  hold- 
ing a  family  council  to  see  what  shall  be  done  with 
a  smart,  lively,  and  promising  boy,  about  fifteen 
years  of  age,  who  has  received  the  usual  elementary 
education,  and  must  now  be  turned  to  something 
which  shall  give  him  a  living.  It  was  a  trouble- 
some question  then,  as  it  is  now,  what  to  do  with 
an  irrepressible  young  fellow;  but  it  was  finally 
concluded  to  put  this  one  to  some  mechanical 
trade.  But  what  trade?  Most  of  the  common 
occupations  were  filled  by  slaves,  and  this  was  a 
freeman's  son.  He  had  already  shown  some  dex- 
terity in  shaping  figures  out  of  wax, —  for  which 
his  schoolmaster  had  often  boxed  his  ears;  and 
so  the  father,  turning  to  the  maternal  uncle  of  the 
boy,  a  stone-cutter  and  sculptor,  said :  "  It  would 
be  affronting  you  to  give  the  preference  to  any 


A  SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND  CENTURY.        33 

other  art ;  so  take  the  boy,  and  do  the  best  you  can 
with  him." 

This  decision  strikes  the  youth  favorably,  for  he 
thinks  it  will  be  a  very  fine  thing  to  carve  little 
gods  and  goddesses  for  himself  and  his  playmates. 
His  uncle  puts  a  chisel  into  his  hand  and  sets  him 
to  work  on  a  slab  of  marble,  which  he  soon  suc- 
ceeds in  breaking,  and  receives  therefor  a  sound 
whipping.  Smarting  with  pain  and  boiling  over 
with  rage,  the  boy  goes  for  comfort  to  his  mother, 
and  under  her  soothing  influence  he  falls  asleep. 
He  dreams  that  two  forms,  one  of  whom  is  Stat- 
uary and  the  other  Learning,  appear  and  quarrel 
for  the  mastery  of  his  person.  Each  presents  her 
case;  and  after  the  first  has  depicted  the  solid  ad- 
vantages of  a  life  of  labor,  Learning  thus  speaks : 

"  You  already  know  my  countenance,  but  much  is  still 
wanting  to  complete  the  acquaintance.  If  you  follow  this 
low  person,  you  will  be  nothing  more  than  a  mechanic,  be 
paid  little  better  than  a  day-laborer,  low  and  narrow  in 
your  views,  an  insignificant  personage  in  the  common- 
wealth, a  mere  handicraftsman,  —  one  of  the  vulgar  herd, 
bowing  and  cringing  to  his  superiors,  adopting  the  opin- 
ion of  every  speaker,  and  living  the  life  of  a  timid  hare. 
Follow  me,  and  I  will  make  you  acquainted  with  all  the 
admirable  characters  of  antiquity,  and  give  you  a  com- 
plete knowledge  of  all  things  human  and  divine.  You, 
the  poor  lad  now  standing  before  me,  the  son  of  a  com- 
mon man  who  would  bring  you  up  to  such  an  ignoble 
trade,  will  shortly  be  envied  by  every  one ;  for  you  will 
be  commended,  honored,  and  esteemed  as  a  man  of  ex- 

3 


34        A  SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY. 

cellent  talents.  You  will  be  dressed  as  you  see  me  here, 
and  every  one  who  sees  you  will  jog  his  neighbor,  point 
to  you  and  say :  '  There  he  goes !  that  is  the  famous 
Lucian  ! '  Think  of  that  great  Demosthenes,  whose  son 
he  was,  and  what  a  man  I  made  of  him  !  Was  not  Eschi- 
nes  the  son  of  a  woman  who  played  on  a  kettle-drum? 
Socrates  was  brought  up  to  statuary,  but  he  soon  made  a 
better  choice ;  and  you  know  how  much  he  has  been 
magnified  by  all  men.  And  would  you  reject  all  this  to 
go  sneaking  about  in  a  coarse  canvas  frock,  always  hand- 
ling iron  tools,  and  poring  over  your  work  with  both 
body  and  mind  pinned  fast  to  the  ground?" 

Such  was  the  substance  of  a  public  lecture  which 
Lucian  delivered  to  his  townsmen  many  years  after- 
ward, when  he  returned  to  his  native  place  with 
a  splendid  retinue,  after  he  had  amassed  a  for- 
tune in  the  practice  of  the  law,  and  had  visited 
many  cities  of  the  vast  Roman  empire  as  a  lec- 
turer on  Rhetoric  and  Belles  Lettres.  Most  of 
his  writings  are  in  the  form  of  dialogue, —  a  form 
which  Plato  sanctioned,  and  which  became  very 
common. 

The  mythological  dialogues  exhibit  the  absurdi- 
ties of  the  popular  beliefs  in  a  lively  and  a  gro- 
tesque way,  attacking  no  one's  faith,  and  yet  cov- 
ering the  entire  Olympus  with  ridicule.  The 
stories  of  the  gods  were  received  as  literal  facts 
by  all  except  a  few  allegorizing  philosophers :  as 
literal  facts  they  are  dealt  with  on  Lucian's  part, 
and  a  sorry  figure  enough  do  the  gods  cut.  They 
enact  over  again  in  the  author's  page  their  most 


A  SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY.        35 

vulgar  and  licentious  parts;  they  exhibit  all  the 
low  passions  that  the  lowest  human  beings  could 
in  performing  the  same  actions;  they  scold  and  lie; 
they  slander  and  ridicule;  they  reproach  and  jeer; 
they  flatter  and  betray  one  another  in  the  most 
bare-faced  manner,  and  not  a  shred  of  what  is  sa- 
cred or  venerable  remains  for  the  motley  crew. 

In  the  mythologic  story,  Jupiter  has  abducted 
the  beautiful  boy  Ganymede,  and  borne  him  to 
Olympus,  where,  according  to  Lucian,  this  con- 
versation takes  place  between  them:  — 

Jupiter.  Now,  my  dear  Ganymede,  we  are  come  to 
our  journey's  end.  Kiss  me,  you  fine  little  fellow  !  There, 
you  see  I  have  no  crooked  beak  now,  no  sharp  claws  and 
no  wings,  as  you  thought  I  had,  when  I  looked  like  a 
bird. 

Ganymede.  How !  You  surely  were  not  the  eagle 
that  came  flying  down,  and  bore  me  away  from  my  flock? 
Where  did  you  get  your  wings,  and  what  makes  you  look 
so  different  now? 

Jupiter.  Oh,  my  fine  boy,  I  am  neither  a  man  nor  an 
eagle.  I  am  the  king  of  the  gods,  who  took  the  form  of 
an  eagle  to  carry  out  my  design. 

Ganymede.  What !  You  are  Pan,  then  ?  But  where 's 
your  pipe,  and  your  horns  and  your  goat's  feet  ? 

Jupiter.   Do  you  think  there  are  no  gods  except  him? 
Ganymede.    In  our  village  we  don't  know  any  other, 
and  we  sacrifice  a  whole  he-goat  before  the  cave  where 
his  image  stands.     Perhaps  you  are  one  of  those  bad  men 
who  steal  people  and  sell  them  into  slavery ! 

Jupiter.    Do  tell  me  if  you  have  never  heard  of  Jupiter, 


36        A  SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY. 

and  never  seen  on  the  top  of  Ida  the  altar  of  the  god  who 
sends  rain,  lightning,  and  thunder? 

Ganymede.  It  was  you  then  who  lately  pelted  us  so 
fiercely  with  hail-stones,  and  who  made  such  a  clattering 
up  among  the  clouds,  and  to  whom  my  father  sacrificed 
a  ram  !  But  what  have  you  flown  off  with  me  for?  My 
sheep  will  run  wild,  and  be  torn  to  pieces  by  the  wolves. 

Jupiter.  Why  should  you  bother  yourself  about  the  silly 
sheep  ?  You  are  now  immortal,  and  will  stay  with  us. 

Ganymede.  What !  shall  I  not  be  taken  back  to  Ida 
to-day? 

Jupiter.  Of  course  not.  What  did  I  turn  myself  from 
a  god  into  an  eagle  for? 

Ganymede.  But  my  father  will  be  angry,  and  I  shall  be 
beaten  for  having  left  my  sheep. 

Jupiter.    He  shall  not  see  you  again. 
Ganymede.    I  will  go  home  !     If  you  '11  carry  me  back, 
I  promise  that  he  shall  sacrifice  to  you  another  ram,  —  the 
big  three-year  old  that  always  goes  at  the  head  of  the  flock. 

Jupiter.  How  simple-minded  and  ingenuous  the  boy 
is !  My  dear  Ganymede,  you  must  think  no  more  of 
such  things.  You  shall  be  my  cup-bearer,  and  instead 
of  milk  and  cheese,  eat  ambrosia  and  drink  nectar.  You 
shall  be  an  immortal,  and  a  star  with  your  name  shall 
sparkle  in  the  sky.  In  short,  you  shall  be  very  happy. 

Ganymede.  But  who  will  play  with  me?  I  used  to 
have  many  playfellows  on  Mt.  Ida. 

Jupiter.  Oh,  I  will  give  you  heaps  of  playthings,  and 
Cupid  shall  be  your  play- fellow.  So  cheer  up,  and  don't 
fret  about  things  below. 

Thus  it  goes  on. 


A  SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY.        37 

As  having  many  points  of  resemblance  to  what 
has  taken  place  in  our  own  day,  the  account  which 
Lucian,  in  the  second  century,  gives  us  of  one 
Alexander  of  Abonoteichos  is  full  of  interest. 
Alexander  was  a  handsome  youth,  with  command- 
ing figure,  bright  eyes,  and  a  musical  gift,  and 
at  the  same  time  noted  for  his  many  licentious 
adventures,  —  so  that  when  a  travelling  physician 
and  conjurer  came  around  who  wanted  an  assist- 
ant, this  same  prepossessing  youth  seemed  made 
specially  to  his  hand.  His  master  soon  died,  and 
Alexander  set  up  in  business  for  himself,  choos- 
ing for  the  beginning  of  his  career  the  city  of 
Chalcedon,  where  he  buried  in  an  old  dilapi- 
dated temple  of  Apollo  two  brass  plates,  on  which 
was  inscribed:  "^Esculapius  will  shortly  come  with 
his  father  Apollo  into  Pontus,  and  fix  his  abode 
at  Abonoteichos."  Of  course  the  tablets  were 
found  in  due  time;  and  the  prepossessing  Alex- 
ander, with  flowing  ringlets,  white  vest  striped 
with  purple,  a  long  white  mantle,  and  holding  a 
scimitar  in  his  right  hand,  d  la  Perseus, —  for  he 
claimed  to  be  directly  descended  by  his  mother's 
side  from  that  hero, —  appeared  in  the  market- 
place. All  the  population  turned  out  for  the 
show.  After  foaming  at  the  mouth,  and  uttering 
i  rhapsody  in  which  the  names  of  Apollo  and 
-^Esculapius  were  frequently  heard,  Alexander  sud- 
denly started  for  the  temple ;  went  to  the  fountain, 
and  there  took  up  an  egg,  out  of  which  crept  a 
little  snake,  that  the  people  all  hailed  as  the  god 


38       A   SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY. 

^sculapius.  The  entire  country  was  stirred  up; 
and  Alexander,  with  a  fine,  large,  tame  snake  in 
his  bosom,  made  an  almost  triumphal  progress 
through  the  land.  What  a  prodigious  miracle 
was  here !  What  a  crowding  and  squeezing  into 
the  little  room  where  Alexander  in  his  grand  at- 
tire fondled  the  newly  manifested  god!  Medals 
were  struck  off,  brass  and  silver  figures  of  the 
new  divinity  were  distributed,  to  whom  the  name 
Glycon  was  given  by  express  command. 

It  was  given  out  now  that  the  god  would  deliver 
oracles  and  make  prophecies,  and  a  day  was  set 
when  people  should  bring  their  scrolls  carefully 
sealed  into  the  temple,  when  the  prophet  would 
hand  them  back  with  an  answer  in  metrical  form  to 
each.  The  people  all  said,  "How  could  this  man 
know  what  was  inside  the  scrolls  unless  he  were  a 
god !"  The  throngs  increased,  the  gains  were  im- 
mense. After  a  while,  some  opposition  beginning 
to  show  itself,  the  prophet  denounced  the  unbe- 
lievers as  atheists,  Christians,  and  Epicureans. 
Greater  wonders  are  contrived ;  the  head  of  the  ser- 
pent speaks.  The  renown  of  the  oracle  extends  to 
Rome,  and  the  most  eager  to  consult  it  were  peo- 
ple of  rank  and  wealth.  Rutillianus,  a  man  in  high 
command,  consults  the  prophet  in  regard  to  the 
education  of  his  son,  and  to  the  question  who 
shall  be  his  tutors  receives  this  answer:  "Pytha- 
goras and  the  greatest  bard  of  warriors."  The  boy 
died  suddenly  a  few  days  after  this,  and  the  father 
saw  herein  the  fulfilment  of  the  oracle, — which 


A  SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY.        39 

had  evidently  recommended,  not  any  living  tutor, 
but  Homer  and  Pythagoras,  whose  instructions  he 
could  now  receive.  The  old  Rutillianus  now  con- 
sults the  oracle  in  regard  to  marrying  again,  and 
is  told  to  take  "Alexander's  and  Selene's  daugh- 
ter for  his  wife. "  This  the  prophet  interprets  as 
meaning  his  own  daughter,  whose  descent  he  traced 
from  Selene,  or  the  moon;  and  Rutillianus  cele- 
brates the  espousals  in  splendid  style. 

The  prophet  is  now  resorted  to  from  every  part 
of  the  Roman  empire.  He  institutes  mysteries 
with  torch  bearers,  processions,  priests,  etc.  ;  and 
by  public  proclamation  all  atheists,  Christians, 
and  Epicureans  are  warned  to  keep  away.  The 
atheists  of  course  would  despise  them,  the  Chris- 
tians abhor  them  as  the  work  of  evil  spirits,  and 
the  Epicureans  laugh  at  them  as  morbid  fancies 
and  foolish  trickeries.  In  these  mysteries  were 
represented  the  birth  of  Apollo  and  ^Esculapius, 
the  loves  of  Luna  and  the  new  Endymion,  and  the 
birth  of  Glycon.  In  the  mystical  torch-dance  the 
prophet  figured,  and  as  his  dress  flew  open  there 
was  visible  a  golden  thigh.  Beautiful  young  girls 
of  noble  birth  came  to  chant  hymns  to  the  newly 
manifested  god.  Those  women  whom  the  prophet 
honored  with  a  kiss  were  thought  to  be  specially 
blest.  Lucian  says  that  he  himself  consulted  the 
oracle,  proposing,  in  a  billet  sealed  up  in  such  a 
way  that  it  could  not  be  opened  without  detection, 
the  following  weighty  question:  "Is  Alexander 
bald?"  The  answer  received  the  next  night  was 


4O        A   SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY. 

this:  "Atlis  was  a  different  king  from  Sbardala- 
chus. "  Another  time  the  sceptic  asked  what  coun- 
try Homer  belonged  to;  and  having  instructed 
his  servant  to  hint  that  his  master  wished  for  a 
remedy  for  a  pain  in  his  side,  the  answer  came 
in  due  form:  "Anoint  thee  with  citmis  and  La- 
tona's  dew."  Another  time  he  asked  the  same 
question,  hinting  to  his  servant  that  it  was  about 
an  intended  journey  to  Italy;  and  the  response 
was:  "Beware  of  the  sea,  travel  only  by  land." 
Lucian  came  near  paying  very  dear  for  his  un- 
masking of  the  impostor,  as  this  model  spiritualist 
bribed  the  crew  of  a  vessel  in  which  Lucian  took 
passage  to  throw  him  into  the  sea;  and  this  in- 
tended disposition  of  the  unbeliever  was  thwart- 
ed only  by  the  resistance  of  the  captain.  But 
Alexander  had  influence  enough  at  court  to  pro- 
cure a  decree  of  the  emperor  that  a  new  coin 
should  be  struck,  having  on  one  side  the  serpent 
of  ^Esculapius,  with  the  inscription,  "  Abonoteichi- 
ton  Glukon;"  and  on  the  other,  "  lonopoleiton 
Glukon,"  with  the  inscription,  "Luc.  verus."  He 
had  prophesied  that  he  should  live  to  be  one 
hundred  and  fifty  years  old,  and  be  struck  by 
lightning;  but  he  died  before  he  was  seventy,  of 
a  horrible  gangrene.  After  his  death  there  was  a 
lively  contest  who  should  be  his  successor;  but 
Rutillianus  decided  that  the  deceased  did  not  ab- 
dicate by  his  death  his  prophetic  office. 

What  a  light  is  here  thrown  upon  the  surging 
of  that  human  heart  of  the  second  century!     "Hu- 


A   SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY.        41 

man  weakness  and  credulity!"  some  one  exclaims. 
But  what  a  longing  for  something  beyond  what 
time  and  sense  can  give!  The  sacred  longings, 
the  divine  instincts,  are  imposed  upon  and  misled; 
but  what  a  capacity  it  argues  in  man  that  he  can 
be  thus  deceived,  thus  mocked,  thus  put  off  with 
the  semblance  of  the  true  food,  and  ever  hope  on 
for  that  light  to  come  from  above,  and  that  word 
to  be  spoken,  which  shall  cause  him  to  bend  in 
reverential  awe!  We  see  here  a  glimpse  of  that 
spiritual  capacity,  which,  once  set  free  from  poly- 
theistic superstition,  would  accept  the  substance 
of  Christian  truth  under  modified  forms,  adapted, 
indeed,  to  its  low  mental  and  moral  state.  But 
humanity  is  not  left  wholly  without  God  in  the 
world;  it  subsides  neither  into  atheistic  materi- 
alism, nor  epicurean  carelessness  and  ease. 

In  another  work,  a  jolly  fellow,  Menippus,  flying 
with  the  wings  of  an  eagle  and  a  vulture,  takes  his 
station  far  above  the  earth,  upon  which  he  looks 
down  and  moralizes^  Wearied  with  the  contra- 
dictory explanations  of  the  philosophers,  the  bold 
Menippus  determines  to  find  out  by  actual  inspec- 
tion the  condition  of  other  worlds;  but  his  atten- 
tion is  chiefly  fixed  upon  this  earth.  From  his 
elevation  all  Greece  appeared  to  be  about  four 
fingers  in  breadth,  and  the  territories  for  which 
thousands  of  brave  men  were  fighting  no  bigger 
than  an  Eygptian  bean.  The  cities  were  like  ant- 
hills, where  there  was  nothing  but  bustle,  running 


42        A   SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY. 

round,  posting  in  and  out,  hurrying  and  scudding, 
one  with  a  bean  and  another  with  a  barley-corn  in 
his  mouth. 

Menippus  pays  a  visit  to  Jupiter,  with  whom  he 
goes  to  the  place  where  the  god  listened  to  the 
prayers  of  mankind.  There  were  apertures,  like 
well-mouths,  provided  with  covers,  and  by  the 
side  of  each  a  golden  chair  of  state.  Jupiter  seated 
himself  and  lifted  up  the  cover,  and  Menippus 
stooped  down  so  that  he  could  hear  also.  Vari- 
ous were  the  prayers :  — 

"  O  Jupiter,  let  me  be  king  !  " 

"  O  Jupiter,  make  my  onions  and  garlic  thrive  ! " 

"  O  Jupiter,  help  me  get  rid  of  my  wife  !  " 

"  Give  success  to  my  law- suit !  " 

"  Crown  me  at  Olympia  ! " 

One  sailor  prays  for  a  north  wind,  another  for 
a  south;  a  farmer  asks  for  rain,  and  a  fuller  for 
sunshine.  Jupiter  heard  them  all,  and  deposited 
some  requests  on  the  right  hand,  and  others  he 
puffed  away.  In  regard  to  £ne  only  was  he  puz- 
zled, and  that  was  where  two  persons  presented 
exactly  opposite  petitions,  promising  precisely  the 
same  sacrifices.  Here  he  was  forced  to  suspend 
his  judgment,  simply  remarking,  "We  shall  see." 
Menippus  is  entertained  with  the  best  of  fare, 
and  finally  falls  asleep  wondering  how  Apollo 
could  live  to  be  as  old  as  he  was  and  have  no 
beard,  and  how  it  could  be  night  in  heaven  since 
the  sun  was  there  carousing  with  them.  Early 


A  SATIRIST  IN   THE  SECOND   CENTURY.       43 

in  the  morning  Jupiter  summons  a  council  of  the 
gods,  to  consult  them  about  the  philosophers,  — 
"  a  mere  set  of  declaimers,  who,  if  they  were  asked 
what  they  were  good  for,  what  they  contributed  to 
the  general  welfare,  each  would  be  obliged  to  say, 
'Although  I  neither  till  the  ground,  nor  carry  on 
trade,  nor  perform  military  service,  nor  exercise 
any  profession,  yet  I  find  fault  with  everybody, 
live  sordidly,  bathe  in  cold  water,  go  barefoot  in 
winter,  and  carp  at  the  doings  of  everybody  else. '  ' 
The  assembly  cries  out  with  one  voice  that  they 
must  be  exterminated,  and  Jupiter  promises  that 
they  shall  be  gored  to  death  on  the  horns  of  their 
own  dilemmas.  After  a  while  Menippus's  wings 
are  clipped,  and  he  is  set  down  upon  the  earth. 

In  Lucian  are  to  be  found  the  originals  of  many 
of  those  burlesque  and  gigantesque  stories  which 
supply  so  much  amusement  to  us  as  youthful  read- 
ers, and  which  have  so  many  sharp  points  of  satire 
that  we  are  luckily  blind  to,  until  knowledge  of 
the  evil  itself  has  made  us  wiser  if  not  happier. 
Such  a  piece  is  the  Dream  of  Micillus,  or  the 
Cock.  The  poor  cobbler  Micillus  is  awakened 
before  light  from  a  dream  of  riches  by  the  crow- 
ing of  a  cock.  He  threatens  to  kill  the  creature 
as  soon  as  he  can  see;  but  to  his  utter  amazement 
the  bird  addresses  him.  Micillus  expresses  his 
surprise;  but  the  cock  asks  whether  that  is  such 
a  mighty  miracle, — whether  Achilles's  horse  did 
not  declaim  a  great  number  of  hexameters ;  if  the 


44        ^  SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY. 

ship  Argo  did  not  talk,  the  famous  beech  of  Do- 
dona's  grove  deliver  oracles,  and  the  oxen  of  the 
sun  low  after  they  were  roasted?  The  cock  de- 
clares that  he  had  passed  through  many  transmigra- 
tions, and  had  once  been  Pythagoras.  He  recounts 
the  various  experiences  he  had  been  through  as  a 
rich  man  and  as  a  king,  with  all  their  annoyances, 
vexations,  conspiracies,  hatreds,  and  reverses,  — 
"favorites  out  of  humor,  mistresses  false,  con- 
spiracies hatched,  and,  worst  of  all,  not  being  able 
to  trust  one's  bosom  friend  and  nearest  relatives." 
The  cobbler  is  sufficiently  cured  of  his  hankering 
after  wealth,  to  exclaim,  "  Enough !  enough !  If 
all  this  is  true,  I  'd  rather  break  my  back  in  stoop- 
ing over  my  lap  stone,  and  cut  leather  into  strips, 
than  drink  poison  out  of  a  golden  goblet.  The 
worst  that  can  happen  to  me  is  to  cut  my  finger 
with  a  paring-knife,  and  I  can  cure  that  with  a 
cobweb." 

But  the  poor  cobbler  cannot  get  wholly  rid  of 
the  desire  to  be  rich.  Especially  is  his  envy  ex- 
cited by  one  Simon,  a  man  now  rolling  in  luxury, 
who  was  once  as  poor  as  himself.  The  cock  has 
been  endowed  by  Mercury  with  the  power  of  open- 
ing any  door,  and  seeing  without  being  seen ;  and 
so  they  visit  —  like  "le  diable  boiteux,"  of  Le 
Sage  —  a  great  many  dwellings,  where  the  inmates 
think  themselves  safe  and  sound  from  observation. 
First  to  the  envious  Simon's,  whom  they  find  sit- 
ting wide  awake  and  poring  over  his  accounts. 
He  soliloquizes:  "Those  seventy  talents  I  have 


A   SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY.       45 

hidden  safe  under  my  bed;  but  I  am  afraid  that 
Sosylus  saw  me  hide  those  sixteen  behind  the 
manger.  My  plate  is  not  safe  in  this  cupboard. 
I  have  a  great  many  enviers  and  enemies;  espe- 
cially, I  have  no  faith  in  Micillus,  that  neighbor 
of  mine.  I  will  go  round  the  house  and  see  if 
all 's  safe."  He  now  stumbles  against  a  statue, 
but  on  striking  it  perceives  his  mistake;  he  counts 
his  gold  again,  and  is  startled  out  of  his  wits  by 
some  fancied  noise.  The  cobbler  says  that  on 
these  conditions  he  would  be  willing  to  have  all 
his  enemies  rich.  Other  houses  are  visited,  and 
the  cobbler  comes  to  the  conclusion  that  he  would 
rather  starve  than  be  like  these  persons  whom  he 
had  so  greatly  envied. 

Another  work  by  Lucian  is  entitled  "The  True 
History,"  intended  as  a  match  for  all  the  wonder- 
ful stories  of  travellers  and  mythologists,  which 
were  undoubtedly  so  rife  in  that  unhistorical  and 
credulous  time.  He  proposes  to  cure  those  who 
are  rabid  by  giving  them  a  hair  of  the  very  dog 
that  bit  them,  outdoing  the  adventures  of  the 
wandering  Ulysses. 

The  narrator  setting  out  in  a  vessel  from 
Cadiz,  with  fifty  companions,  after  having  been 
driven  before  the  wind  for  eighty  days,  came  to 
pillars  inscribed:  "Thus  far  came  Bacchus  and 
Hercules."  Then,  going  farther  on  by  land,  they 
came  to  a  large  navigable  river,  which  ran  wine 
instead  of  water, —  a  striking  confirmation  of  the 


46        A   SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY. 

fact  that  Bacchus  had  visited  that  region.  They 
also  saw  women  whose  fingers  and  hair  terminated 
in  vines  and  bunches  of  grapes.  They  returned 
to  the  ship,  which  was  taken  up  by  a  whirlwind 
and  carried  along  above  the  clouds,  until  they 
came  to  a  large,  shining,  circular  island,  to  which 
they  moored  the  vessel.  Here  they  were  seized 
by  some  men  riding  on  huge  vultures,  and  carried 
before  the  king,  who  was  no  other  than  Endy- 
mion.  This  lunar  king  was  at  war  with  Phaeton, 
the  solar  king,  and  the  strangers  accompany  their 
host  the  next  day  to  the  battle.  Such  troops 
an  unbridled  imagination  never  collected  before! 
Falstaff  himself  would  have  been  outfaced  by 
such  a  regiment !  —  eighty  thousand  on  huge  vul- 
tures, and  twenty  thousand  on  birds,  who  were 
thickly  grown  over  with  cabbages  instead  of  feath- 
ers, with  wings  of  lettuce-leaves-;  archers  mounted 
on  fleas  three  times  as  large  as  elephants;  and 
wind-coursers,  who  wore  long  gowns,  which  they 
tucked  up  and  used  as  sails.  The  horse-cranes 
and  other  terrible  troops  which  were  to  come  he 
cannot  describe,  for  he  did  not  see  them, —  as 
they  never  came.  Some  spiders  in  the  moon,  the 
smallest  of  which  was  larger  than  the  biggest  of 
the  Cyclades,  were  ordered  to  fill  up  the  whole 
tract  between  the  moon  and  the  morning  star 
with  a  web,  which  made  a  solid  footing  for  the 
six  hundred  millions  of  the  foot-soldiery.  Phaeton 
had  an  equally  formidable  force  of  gnat -riders, 
slingers  from  the  milky  way,  cloud-centaurs,  etc. 


A   SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY.       47 

Phaeton's  defeat  was  decisive;  the  clouds  were 
even  tinged  with  blood,  and  some  drops  fell  to 
the  earth,  — which  may  account,  Lucian  thinks,  for 
the  shower  of  blood  which  Homer  says  Jupiter 
rained  down  at  Sarpedon's  death.  Two  trophies 
of  victory  were  erected,  —  one  on  the  cobweb,  and 
the  other  on  the  clouds.  But  they  were  too  soon 
in  their  rejoicing.  While  they  were  thus  dis- 
persed and  unprepared,  the  cloud-centaurs  came 
up,  headed  by  Sagittarius  from  the  zodiac.  It 
was  a  terrific  sight, —  these  half-men,  half-horse 
creatures;  the  human  part  as  large  as  the  upper 
half  of  the  Colossus  at  Rhodes,  and  the  horse-half 
as  large  as  a  ship,  and  their  number  so  prodigious 
that  the  narrator  declines  to  state  it  lest  he  should 
not  be  believed  !  The  narrator  and  his  companions 
are  taken  prisoners  and  carried  to  the  sun.  En- 
dymion  was  besieged  in  his  capital,  and  a  great 
wall  built  up  to  deprive  him  of  the  light.  He  is 
brought  to  terms,  and  peace  is  happily  concluded. 
The  Selenites  do  not  die,  but  vanish  like  smoke 
into  the  air.  They  snuff  up  the  effluvia  of  what 
they  roast,  instead  of  eating  the  meat  itself;  and 
for  drink  they  squeeze  moisture  out  of  the  air. 
They  esteem  a  bald  head  a  beauty,  while  on  the 
comets  curly  hair  is  the  fashion.  Their  eyes  they 
can  take  out  at  pleasure  and  put  them  in  their 
pockets.  In  the  king's  palace  is  a  wonderful 
looking-glass,  and  any  one  who  looks  into  it  can 
see  all  that  is  happening  on  the  earth.  "  If  any 
one  disbelieves  this,"  adds  the  author,  "if  he  ever 


48        A  SATIRTST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY. 

goes   thither   he   may   convince   himself  with  his 
own  eyes  that  the  whole  is  true." 

The  travellers  have  many  other  adventures  in  the 
celestial  regions,  but  are  infinitely  rejoiced  at  last 
to  find  themselves  sailing  again  on  their  own  watery 
element.  But  a  great  whale,  three  hundred  miles 
long,  came  towards  them  and  swallowed  ship 
and  all  at  one  gulp.  They  entered  a  cavity  of 
vast  extent,  where  were  bones,  cargoes  of  ships, 
sails,  anchors,  and  a  small  island  with  trees  and 
hills, —  some  floating  island  which  the  monster 
had  swallowed.  In  the  trees  were  various  birds, 
and  the  dejected  crew  made  themselves  as  com- 
fortable as  they  could.  They  find  in  the  interior  a 
temple  dedicated  to  Neptune,  and  a  man  and  a  boy 
who  had  been  enclosed,  also,  in  that  living,  mov- 
ing tomb.  The  man  tells  his  story :  he  had  been 
there  twenty- seven  years,  and  could  be  very  com- 
fortable were  it  not  for  the  horrid  monsters  of  all 
sorts  that  inhabited  the  interior  of  their  abode, 
and  were  divided  into  different  races  which  were  at 
war  with  one  another.  The  old  man,  living  among 
the  Psettopydes,  or  lobster-footed  race,  remarkable 
for  their  swiftness,  paid  them  an  annual  tribute 
of  five  hundred  oysters.  As  their  only  weapons 
were  fish-bones,  it  was  determined  to  fight  them 
at  once.  Half  the  crew  were  placed  in  ambush, 
and  fell  upon  the  rear  of  the  advancing  host,  who 
were  defeated  with  great  slaughter,  while  only  one 
of  the  crew  was  killed.  Fresh  enemies  came  up, 
but  were  sent  packing,  and  driven  out  of  the 
whale's  jaws  into  the  sea. 


A  SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY.        49 

After  staying  a  year  and  eight  months  in  the 
whale's  belly,  the  unlucky  travellers  began  to  con- 
trive some  way  of  exit.  After  digging  till  they 
were  tired,  they  concluded  to  set  fire  to  the  forests, 
beginning  at  the  extremity  near  his  tail.  After 
eleven  days  the  fire  began  to  tell  on  the  monster, 
and  his  strength  declined,  so  that  they  were  able  to 
prop  his  mouth  open  with  an  immense  beam,  haul 
out  their  vessel,  and  put  to  sea  again.  They  now 
sailed  through  seas  of  milk,  got  frozen  up,  saw  men 
walking  on  the  sea,  who  were  like  themselves  in 
every  respect  except  that  they  had  cork  feet.  Then 
our  travellers  came  to  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed; 
fragrant  breezes  of  the  lily,  violet,  and  vine  were 
wafted  toward  them,  enchanting  zephyrs  whispered 
around,  and  harmonious  strains  resounded  from  the 
groves ;  they  heard  also  singing,  and  the  music  of 
instruments.  Upon  going  ashore,  they  found  that 
Rhadamanthus  the  Cretan  was  the  sovereign.  The 
city  was  of  gold,  surrounded  by  walls  of  emeralds ; 
the  pavement  was  of  ivory,  the  houses  of  beryl,  and 
the  altars  of  amethyst.  Round  the  city  flowed  a 
stream  of  fragrant  oil-of-roses ;  the  baths  were  of 
crystal,  and  filled  with  warm  dew.  The  inhabitants 
had  no  bodies  of  flesh  and  bone,  but  were  souls 
with  a  semblance  of  body  wrapped  about  them,  — 
upright  shadows,  as  it  were,  which,  instead  of 
being  black,  had  the  natural  color  of  bodies,  and 
looked  so  natural  that  one  had  to.  touch  them  to 
be  convinced  that  they  were  not  corporeal  forms. 
They  never  grew  old,  and  enjoyed  a  perpetual 

4 


50        A   SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY. 

spring.  Their  drinking-glasses  bloomed  on  trees 
of  transparent  glass,  and  flocks  of  nightingales 
brought  chaplets  and  dropped  them  on  their  heads. 
At  the  table  songs  and  poems  were  chanted,  and 
before  they  sat  down  they  drank  at  the  fountains 
of  mirth  and  laughter.  The  Epicureans  were 
here  held  in  highest  esteem ;  the  Stoics  were  not 
present,  being  still  engaged  in  climbing  their  hill 
of  virtue;  the  Academics  stood  hesitating,  and 
doubting  whether  to  enter  or  not.  The  narrator 
found  there  the  old  heroes ;  and  when  he  left  the 
island,  Ulysses  drew  him  aside  and  gave  him  a 
letter  to  Calypso,  which  Penelope  was  to  know 
nothing  about.  The  travellers  now  passed  some 
islands  which  were  as  offensive  as  the  others  were 
delightful,  and  at  last  came  to  the  land  of  dreams, 
where  they  tarried  thirty  days.  Calypso  enter- 
tained them  magnificently  on  her  island,  and  put 
several  questions  to  them  in  regard  to  Penelope,  — 
how  she  looked,  and  whether  she  was  really  such 
a  model  of  virtue  as  Ulysses  had  boasted.  After 
leaving  Calypso  they  sailed  past  a  wonderful  hal- 
cyon's nest,  and  strange  prodigies  happened:  the 
goose  on  their  prow  began  to  cackle,  the  steers- 
man's bald  pate  became  covered  with  fine  hair, 
and  the  masts  began  to  sprout  out  with  figs  and 
clusters  of  grapes.  Other  wonderful  adventures 
are  related  in  the  soberest  way  as  facts,  until  the 
navigators  return  to  their  native  land. 

Here  are    Rabelais,   Munchausen,  and  Gulliver 
combined. 


A  SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY.        51 

Great,  indeed,  must  have  been  the  demoralization 
of  the  popular  belief  in  polytheism  for  Lucian  to 
have  written  his  "  Council  of  the  Gods. "  The  ques- 
tion under  consideration  among  the  Deities  is  the 
abuses  that  have  crept  into  their  general  assembly, 
and  the  undue  increase  in  the  number  of  those  who 
occupy  celestial  seats.  Jupiter  calls  a  council  to  de- 
bate upon  the  matter,  and  opens  the  meeting  thus : 

"  Ye  Gods  !  stop  this  grumbling  between  your  teeth, 
this  whispering  in  corners,  about  so  many  who  are  un- 
worthy of  the  honor  of  sitting  down  at  table.  Let  every 
one  speak  his  mind  freely.  Mercury,  perform  your  office. 

Mercury.  Ho  !  Silence  !  Every  deity  of  full  age  is 
privileged  to  speak. 

Momus.  I  say  it  is  abominable  that  so  many,  not  con- 
tent with  being  made  gods  out  of  men,  imagine  that  their 
new  dignity  gives  them  a  right  to  put  their  train  of  follow- 
ers into  the  same  class  with  us,  to  bring  their  pot-compan- 
ions with  them  into  heaven,  and  get  them  enrolled  in  our 
register  by  stealth ;  so  that  these  upstarts  and  intruders 
now  partake  in  all  the  gifts  and  sacrifices,  and  receive  an 
equal  portion  with  us,  though  they  never  once  think  of 
paying  their  protection  fees. 

Jupiter.  Speak  with  more  directness,  Momus,  and  give 
us  the  names  of  those  you  have  reference  to.  Use  the 
frankness  that  you  plume  yourself  so  much  upon." 

Momus  does  speak  frankly  about  Bacchus  and 
his  drunken  troop  of  followers;  Silenus  and  Pan, 
—  the  one  an  old  bald-pate  with  a  flat  nose,  and 
generally  riding  on  an  ass,  except  when  he  is  sc 
drunk  that  he  cannot  hold  on ;  and  the  other  with 


52        A   SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND  CENTURY. 

horns  and  beard  and  goat's  feet.  He  also  has  some- 
thing to  say  against  Jupiter  himself,  who  turned 
himself  into  so  many  forms  and  filled  the  assembly 
with  such  an  illegitimate  crowd, —  declaring  that 
the  gods  often  feared  lest,  in  the  course  of  his  mas- 
querading, he  might  sometime  or  other  be  seized 
as  a  bull  and  slaughtered,  or  fall  into  a  goldsmith's 
hand  and  be  melted  up  into  a  bracelet  or  ear-ring. 

"And  you  Egyptian  dog's  face!"  Momus  continues, 
"  how  came  you  to  think  you  may  bark  among  the  gods  ? 
And  what  means  that  pied  bull  of  Memphis,  with  his  oracles 
and  prophets,  —  and  the  storks  and  apes  and  goats  and  other 
preposterous  deities  that  have  been  foisted  into  heaven  ? 
And  how  you,  Jupiter,  can  endure  to  have  a  pair  of  ram's 
horns  clapped  on  your  head  is  past  my  comprehension. 

Jupiter.  It  is  really  infamous  !  However,  in  most  of 
these  objects  there  lies  at  bottom  a  mystical  meaning, 
which  one  who  is  not  initiated  should  not  presume  to 
deride. 

Momus.  But,  after  all,  we  have  no  need  of  mysteries  in 
order  to  know  that  gods  are  gods,  and  dog's  heads  dog's 
heads. 

Jupiter.  Let  these  matters  alone,  and  proceed,  if  you 
have  any  more  objections  to  offer." 

Momus  proceeds  in  the  same  vein,  and  finally 
reads  the  following  decree,  drawn  up  in  due  form : 

"At  a  general  council  of  the  gods,  beneath  the  aus- 
pices of  Jupiter,  under  the  presidency  of  Neptune,  on  the 
motion  of  Apollo,  Momus  the  son  of  Night  has  drawn 
up  this  decree,  to  which  Sleep  has  given  his  approval: 


A  SATIKIST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY.        53 

Whereas,  a  great  number  of  foreigners,  Greeks  as  well  as 
Barbarians,  have  clandestinely  got  themselves  enrolled  in 
our  register,  and  have  so  crowded  heaven  that  our  table 
is  overstocked  with  a  tumultuous  rabble,  and  thence  has 
ensued  such  a  deficiency  of  nectar  and  ambrosia  that  we 
are  obliged  to  pay  twelve  ounces  of  silver  for  a  pint  of 
nectar ;  And  whereas,  these  intruders  have  insolently  pre- 
if  sumed  to  shove  out  the  ancient  and  true  deities  from  the 
first  seats, — be  it  Resolved  by  this  Council,  that,  on  the 
next  winter  solstice,  a  general  council  shall  be  held,  and 
a  committee  composed  of  seven  of  the  gods  shall  be  ap- 
pointed, three  of  whom  shall  be  taken  from  the  old  coun- 
cil under  Saturn,  and  four  elected  from  the  twelve  deities 
of  Olympus,  whereof  Jupiter  is  to  be  one.  The  said  com- 
mittee shall  first  be  required  to  take  a  solemn  oath  by 
Styx,  and  Mercury  shall  officially  summon  all  who  think 
that  they  have  a  right  to  assist  in  the  divine  councils,  and 
they  shall  bring  their  sworn  witnesses  and  records  before 
the  said  committee,  and  shall  be  either  declared  true 
gods  or  sent  back  to  their  family  vaults ;  and  if  any  of 
those  rejected  shall  ever  again  dare  to  look  into  or  set 
foot  in  heaven,  they  shall  be  hurled  down  to  Tartarus. 
And  further  be  it  ordained,  that  every  deity  shall  mind 
his  own  business,  and  neither  Minerva  meddle  with  heal- 
ing, nor  Esculapius  with  fortune-telling;  and  let  Apollo 
select  one  profession,  and  be  either  a  fortune-teller,  a 
fiddler,  or  a  physician;  and  furthermore,  let  the  altars, 
images,  and  temples  of  the  rejected  be  demolished. 
Whoever  disobeys  this  decree,  or  refuses  to  appear  be- 
fore the  committee,  shall  be  condemned  for  contumacy 
without  further  process.  Such  is  our  decree. 
Jupiter.  It  could  not  be  better.  So  many  as  are  in 


54       A  SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY. 

favor  of  it  will  hold  up  their  hands.  Or,  rather,  let  it 
be  ratified  without  any  show  of  hands ;  for  there  are  too 
many  that  will  not  vote  the  right  way,  for  very  good  rea- 
sons of  their  own.  Now,  Gods,  you  may  go.  But  when 
Mercury  summons  you,  let  every  one  bring  his  patent  of 
godship,  the  name  of  his  father  and  mother,  and  how  he 
came  to  be  a  god,  and  of  what  stock  he  is.  If  any  one 
cannot  produce  these  legal  documents,  no  matter  how 
magnificent  a  temple  he  may  have  on  earth,  the  com- 
mittee will  pay  no  regard  to  it." 

How  like  a  modern  document  this  paper  sounds, 
though  written  in  the  second  century ;  and  what  a 
satire  upon  the  polytheism  of  the  ancient  world, 
crumbling  to  pieces,  while  out  of  its  debris  was 
springing  up  a  purer  and  more  universal  faith! 

Another  popular  superstition  that  Lucian  un- 
masked with  all  his  powers  of  biting  drollery  was 
the  belief  in  ghosts,  spirits,  and  demonic  posses- 
sions. From  the  many  passages  that  relate  to 
this  recurring  theme,  and  that  give  us  the  very 
body  and  pressure  of  this  period  of  miracles  and 
spiritual  wonders,  one  transcription  will  suffice : 

"  While  we  were  thus  conversing,  in  came  Arignotus  the 
Pythogorean,  of  a  grave  and  venerable  aspect,  renowned 
for  his  wisdom,  and  by  many  styled  the  holy  Arignotus. 
I  felt  cheered  to  see  him,  for  I  thought  he  would  stop 
the  mouths  of  these  miracle-mongers.  He  began  by  ask- 
ing, 'Have  you  not  been  philosophizing?'  Said  Dino- 
machus,  '  I  have  been  trying  to  convince  this  unbelieving 
man  that  there  are  such  things  as  ghosts  and  spectres, 


A   SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY.        55 

and  that  the  souls  of  the  dead  roam  about  the  earth  and 
become  visible  when  they  please.'  '  Perhaps,'  replied 
Arignotus,  '  it  is  his  opinion  that  the  souls  only  of  those 
who  have  died  a  violent  death  wander  to  and  fro.  If  this 
is  his  belief,  he  may  not  be  greatly  in  the  wrong.'  « No, 
by  Jove  ! '  cried  Dinomachus,  '  he  denies  everything  of  the 
kind,  absolutely  and  entirely,  and  thinks  that  it  is  utterly 
impossible.'  '  How  ! '  said  Arignotus,  looking  sternly  at 
me ;  '  you  deny  the  reality  of  what  the  whole  human 
race  bears  witness  to  ? '  '  The  accusation  of  unbelief 
justifies  me,'  1  replied ;  '  I  do  not  believe,  because  I  am 
the  only  one  who  does  not  see  anything  of  the  kind. 
Had  I  seen,  I  should  doubtless  believe  as  well  as  you.' 
'  If  you  should  ever  go  to  Corinth,'  said  Arignotus,  '  ask  for 
the  house  of  Eubatides  ;  and  when  you  go  in,  tell  the  por- 
ter you  would  like  to  see  the  place  from  which  Arignotus 
expelled  the  evil  spirit.'  'Tell  us  about  it,  Arignotus.' 
'  Well,'  replied  he,  '  whoever  entered  the  house  was  sure 
to  be  frightened  by  a  horrid  apparition.  The  house  be- 
came uninhabited  and  almost  fell  to  ruin.  I  resolved  to 
stay  there  one  night,  in  spite  of  all  entreaties  to  the  con- 
trary. A  rough  and  shaggy  demon  appeared,  turning  him- 
self into  a  dog,  then  a  bull,  and  then  a  lion  ;  but  I  made 
use  of  most  fearful  imprecations  and  incantations  in  the 
Egyptian  tongue,  and  the  spectre  vanished.  I  marked 
the  spot  where  it  disappeared,  and  ordering  the  ground 
to  be  dug  up  we  found  there  a  skeleton.  We  buried  it 
with  proper  sacred  rites,  and  no  ghost  has  ever  been  seen 
there  since.'  " 

But  this  was  not  just  the  evidence  that  wouIH 
satisfy  Lucian,  however  satisfactory  it  may  have 
been  to  Arignotus  himself. 


56        A   SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY. 

The  philosophers  of  the  time  are  as  little  spared 
by  the  satirist  as  are  the  devotees  of  superstition. 
He  gives  the  history  of  one  Peregrinus,  who  finally 
burned  himself  alive.  On  the  road  home  from  the 
spectacle,  Lucian  meets  several  persons  hurrying 
along,  who  are  too  late  to  witness  it.  He  gravely 
tells  some  of  the  gaping  simpletons  who  question 
him  about  the  event,  that  as  soon  as  Peregrinus 
jumped  into  the  flames  the  earth  began  to  quake, 
and  a  vulture  flew  up  to  heaven  and  uttered  these 
words:  "Soaring  above  the  earth,  I  ascend  to 
Olympus."  Shuddering  with  awe,  the  poor  peo- 
ple breathe  a  prayer  to  the  new  demi-god,  and  ask 
whether  the  vulture  flew  toward  the  east  or  to- 
ward  the  west.  Afterward,  he  hears  an  old  man 
recounting  in  the  public  market-place  how  he 
himself  had  seen,  but  a  few  moments  before,  the 
burnt  philosopher  walking  in  the  sacred  grove  in 
white  raiment  and  with  an  olive  wreath  on  his 
brow;  and  that  he  had  beheld  the  vulture  with 
his  own  eyes  fly  up  from  the  fire.  "What  mi- 
raculous things  will  hereafter  be  related  of  this 
man !  "  says  Lucian. 

This  Peregrinus,  changing  from  one  philosophi- 
cal sect  to  another,  at  last  joins  the  sect  of  Chris- 
tians, and  is  thrown  into  prison.  In  his  wretched- 
ness, his  fellow-believers  come  from  far  distant 
cities  to  be  his  advocates,  and  to  assist  and  com- 
fort him, —  for  these  people,  in  all  such  cases,  are 
inconceivably  alert  and  active,  sparing  neither 
trouble  nor  expense.  Large  presents  were  made 


A  SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY.        57 

to  Peregrinus;  "for  these  poor  people,"  he  says, 
"  have  taken  it  into  their  heads  that  they  shall  be 
immortal,  both  body  and  soul,  and  live  to  all  eter- 
nity; and  so  they  despise  death,  and  even  run  into 
his  clutches.  Besides,  their  law-giver  taught  them 
that  they  were  all  brothers  after  they  had  once  re- 
nounced the  Grecian  deities,  bent  the  knee  to  the 
great  Sophist,  and  lived  in  obedience  to  his  laws. 
All  things  else  they  look  upon  as  worthless  and 
vain;  and  whenever  any  cunning  impostor  applies 
to  them,  who  understands  the  proper  trick,  he  finds 
it  an  easy  matter  to  lead  these  simple  people  by 
the  nose,  and  very  soon  to  become  rich  at  their 
expense." 

What  an  involuntary  testimony  is  here  borne 
to  the  character  of  those  early  Christians, —  their 
simplicity,  their  faith,  their  mutual  love,  and  their 
heroic  contempt  of  danger  and  of  death!  Could 
not  the  enlightened  speculator  on  human  nature 
and  human  affairs  discern  this  seemingly  feeble 
germ?  His  work  was  to  topple  down  the  old  tem- 
ples, to  cover  the  remnants  of  old  superstitions 
with  laughter  and  contempt,  and  bury  out  of  sight 
the  hideous  forms  of  licentious  and  unreasoning 
idolatry.  His  sweeping  scythe  could  not  dis- 
criminate, and  in  its  broad  sweep  cut  down  this- 
tle, white-weed,  and  clover  alike;  but  thereby  free 
space  and  air  were  given  for  the  tender  germs  of 
a  purer  faith  to  grow  up,  to  be  for  long  ages  the 
sustenance  of  humanity. 


58        A   SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND   CENTURY. 

Thus  in  Lucian's  page  there  pass  before  us  the 
scenes  of  that  long-vanished  age, —  the  shifting 
scenes  of  kings  and  beggars,  parasites  and  slaves; 
wealthy  blockheads  displaying  affectedly  the  pur- 
ple borders  of  their  garments,  spreading  their 
fingers  that  their  rings  may  be  seen,  and  saluting 
by  proxy  their  acquaintances  in  the  street ;  people 
besieging  the  door  of  their  patrons  before  it  is 
light;  men  of  reverend  years  hanging  about  the 
rich  man's  table;  philosophers  with  their  long 
beards  and  mantles  mingling  among  the  attend- 
ants and  fawning  sycophants  of  the  great,  preach- 
ing contempt  of  riches  and  yet  selling  their  wares 
to  the  highest  bidders;  wealthy  people,  still  so 
enamoured  of  their  preposterous  vanities  as  to  or- 
der in  their  wills  that  their  best  valuables  should 
be  burned  on  their  funeral  piles,  and  that  their 
slaves  should  keep  perpetual  watch  at  their  sep- 
ulchres and  decorate  their  tombs  with  flowers; 
believers  in  spirit  communications  and  rappings, 
in  ghosts,  in  auguries,  in  oracles  and  divinations, 
so  that  sometimes  we  seem  to  be  reading  some 
"Banner  of  Light,"  of  the  present  day. 

"  You  know  how  much  I  loved  my  dear,  departed  wife," 
says  one.  "  I  have  shown  it  by  burning  with  her  all  her 
jewels  and  the  dress  she  most  delighted  in.  Seven  days 
after  her  death  I  was  lying  on  this  couch,  trying  to  con- 
sole myself,  and  reading  Plato  on  the  immortality  of 
the  soul.  All  at  once  I  beheld  my  Demeneta  sitting 
where  that  boy  now  is.  (Here  he  pointed  to  his  young- 
est son,  who  had  begun  to  turn  pale  at  his  father's  recital, 


A   SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND  CENTURY.        59 

and  was  now  quite  ghastly.)  I  embraced  her,  and  she 
wept  like  a  child.  She  complained  that  I,  who  used  to 
do  everything  to  please  her,  had  neglected  to  burn  with 
her  one  of  her  golden  sandals.  She  said  that  it  had  fallen 
down  behind  a  clothes- chest,  —  that  was  the  reason  I 
could  not  find  it.  My  little  dog  began  now  to  bark,  and 
she  immediately  vanished.  The  sandal  was  afterward 
found  behind  the  clothes-chest,  and  on  the  following  day 
it  was  burned." 

Is  it  of  the  second  or  the  nineteenth  century  that 
we  are  reading  in  this  recital  ? 

But  we  must  bid  farewell  to  this  more  than 
ghostly  re-appearance  of  the  vanished  century. 
As  a  picture  of  the  life  and  manners  of  a  great 
part  of  the  civilized  world  in  a  peroid  of  decay- 
ing beliefs  and  crumbling  forms  of  philosophy 
and  religion, —  a  period  of  external  peace  but  of 
inward  corruption;  a  period  when  all  the  vices, 
the  licentious  superstitions,  the  sensual  extrava- 
gances, the  idolatries,  the  humbugs,  the  seething 
and  fermenting  pretentions  and  lies  of  long  ages 
of  delusion  met  in  the  world's  great  capital  and 
mingled  in  one  great  maelstrom,  whose  fierce 
whirl  was  felt  to  the  remotest  lands, —  as  a  pic- 
ture of  this,  as  a  culminating  expression  of  the 
life  of  polytheistic  Greece  and  Rome,  from  which 
all  earnest  belief  had  forever  fled, —  as  one  of  the 
heralds  of  a  higher  and  a  fairer  doctrine  of  God, 
of  duty,  and  of  immortality,  this  writer  is  worthy 
of  our  passing  attention.  But  it  is  a  hollow  laugh 
that  echoes  mournfully  through  these  desolate 


6O        A  SATIRIST  IN  THE  SECOND  CENTURY. 

vaults.  We  ask  for  something  more, —  something 
that  shall  feed  our  souls  with  faith  and  love  and 
reverence;  something  that  shall  lift  us  into  a 
more  holy  sphere  and  help  us  to  believe,  to  be 
strong,  and  to  hope,  while  the  years  flit  by  as  a 
passing  dream,  and  the  centuries  are  folded  up  as 
a  written  scroll. 


III. 

A    SCEPTIC     IN     THE     EIGHTEENTH 
CENTURY. 

EDGAR  QUINET  calls  the  eighteenth  century  "the 
migration  of  the  modern  world  from  one  form  of 
society  into  another,"  and  speaks  of  Voltaire  as 
"the  spiritual  director  of  this  epoch,"  as  seated 
upon  that  spiritual  throne  which  was  held  by  the 
Papacy  in  the  Middle  Age. 

Voltaire's  real  name  was  Francois  Marie  Arouet. 
Born  in  1694,  he  was  early  sent  to  a  Jesuit  college, 
frequented  by  the  sons  of  the  haute  noblesse.  He 
received  the  nickname  among  his  mates  of  the 
"  little  wilful, "  and  was  a  prodigy  of  vivacious  quick- 
wittedness,  mischief,  and  boyish  audacity.  "  Keep 
out  of  the  way !  "  the  precocious  sceptic  as  well  as 
wit  said  to  one  of  his  comrades  who  intercepted 
the  heat  of  the  fireplace, —  "keep  out  of  the  way, 
or  I'll  send  you  to  Pluto's  realms."  "Why  not 
say  hell?  That  's  warmer  yet,"  said  his  comrade. 
"  How  do  you  know  that  ? "  rejoined  Voltaire ; 
"there's  no  better  warrant  for  the  one  than  for 
the  other."  At  another  time,  when  one  said  to 
him  that  "  he  was  too  wicked  ever  to  go  to  heaven," 
he  replied,  "Heaven!  heaven!  that's  nothing  but 
a  great  dormitory  for  the  world." 


62      A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

To  sneer  at  religion  among  these  aristocratic 
youths  was  the  mark  of  a  high  spirit.  The  me- 
moirs of  that  time  reveal  a  fearful  state  of  cor- 
ruption in  the  entire  social  atmosphere.  The 
shameful  profligacy  of  the  court  was  only  equalled 
by  its  superstitious  formality,  and  by  the  austere 
bigotry  of  devotees,  who  compounded  with  the 
Celestial  Powers  for  their  sins  by  the  orthodoxy 
of  their  creed,  and  by  the  fierceness  of  their  zeal 
against  all  forms  of  heresy.  When  Voltaire  was 
only  twelve  years  old,  one  of  his  reverend  tutors 
prophesied  that  he  would  become  the  "  Corypheus 
of  Deism  in  France."  But,  as  Lord  Brougham 
well  says,  "Whoever  doubted  the  real  presence, 
or  questioned  the  power  of  absolution,  was  at  once 
set  down  for  an  infidel  in  those  times;"  and  a 
trifle  of  wit  mingled  with  the  argument  would 
readily  brand  one  as  a  blasphemer.  In  Voltaire's 
case,  neither  the  wit  nor  the  will  was  wanting. 
In  one  respect,  the  youth  of  the  juvenile  scape- 
grace was  not  the  father  of  the  man;  for  in  his 
manhood  he  was  prudent  in  money  matters,  and 
accumulated  an  immense  fortune,  so  that  he  be- 
came the  creditor  of  many  a  nobleman,  and  was 
noted  for  his  shrewdness  and  his  sharp  eye  to  the 
main  chance.  In  his  youthful  days  he  had  occa- 
sion to  make  a  visit  to  a  money-lender;  and  he 
gives  the  following  narration  of  his  experience : 

"  I  found  on  the  usurer's  table  two  crucifixes,  and  I 
asked  him  whether  they  had  been  left  to  pawn.  He  said 
no ;  but  that  he  never  made  any  bargain  without  having 


A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTUXY.      63 

those  crucifixes  near.  I  said  that  I  thought  one  would 
do,  and  my  advice  was  to  place  that  one  between  two 
thieves.  He  said  I  was  an  impious  fellow,  and  he  would 
not  loan  me  a  cent ;  but  he  did  let  me  have  money  at 
twenty  per  cent  interest,  on  security  worth  five  times 
the  sum,  —  deducting  the  interest  in  advance,  and  finally 
decamping  with  my  securities  in  his  pocket." 

It  was,  indeed,  a  horrible  religious  atmosphere 
for  a  young  man  to  breathe,  not  too  well  endowed 
with  reverence  and  spiritual  insight.  Religion 
was  a  part  of  the  State  machinery,  and  only  as  it 
persecuted  heretics  did  it  show  signs  of  being 
alive.  To  be  a  Protestant  was  to  be  an  outlaw; 
to  be  a  Papist  was  to  possess  the  right  of  tramp- 
ling upon  every  individual  conviction  and  all 
venerable  and  instinctive  moralities.  No  period 
of  the  world  presents  a  more  gruesome  and  loath- 
some spectacle  of  religious  immorality  and  of 
immoral  religion.  The  court  was  austerely  de- 
vout; polite  society  was  ostentatiously  vicious, 
and  bigotedly  unbigoted  in  its  licentiousness  and 
unbelief.  The  court  formed  itself  upon  Madame 
de  Maintenon,  and  "good  society"  upon  Ninon 
de  1'Enclos.  Madame  endeavored  to  bribe  the 
wonderful  coquette  to  become  a  devotee;  but 
she  replied  that  she  had  no  need  either  of  a 
fortune  or  a  mask. 

To  Ninon,  Voltaire  was  early  introduced  by  his 
godfather,  the  Abbe  Chateauneuf,  as  a  desirable 
acquaintance.  She  was  then  eighty  years  old ; 
and  when  she  died  she  left  to  Voltaire,  by  will, 


64      A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

two  thousand  francs  for  the  purchase  of  books. 
One  of  his  first  purchases  from  this  fund  was 
Bayle's  "Philosophical  Dictionary,"  -the  great 
mine  from  which  the  doubters  of  the  eighteenth 
century  forged  their  pointed  shafts  of  criticism 
and  raillery. 

Being  suspected  of  having  written  a  satire  which 
seemed  to  cast  some  severe  reflections  upon  the 
memory  of  Louis  XIV.,  Voltaire  was  sent  to  the 
Bastile  when  twenty-two  years  of  age,  and  again, 
a  few  years  afterward,  for  some  personal  quarrel 
with  a  courtier  who  was  entirely  in  the  wrong. 
In  the  Bastile  he  wrote  the  "Henriade,"  whose 
hero  was  the  great  advocate  of  religious  tolera- 
tion, and  who  was  as  good  at  a  ban  mot  in  its  be- 
half as  Voltaire  himself.  When  set  free  from  the 
Bastile  by  the  regent,  Philip  of  Orleans,  the  poet 
went  to  the  Palais  Royal  to  pay  his  respects  to 
his  patron,  and  was  kept  waiting  in  the  ante- 
chamber longer  than  suited  his  impatient  spirit. 
While  waiting,  a  terrible  thunder-storm  broke  over 
their  heads;  and  the  fuming  youth  exclaimed  in 
the  hearing  of  those  about  him,  "Things  could  n't 
go  on  worse  if  they  were  managed  up  above  there 
by  a  regency."  On  presenting  him,  the  Marquis 
de  Noce  reported  the  speech,  saying,  "Monseign- 
eur,  this  is  the  young  Arouet  whom  you  have 
just  taken  out  of  the  Bastile,  and  whom  you  will 
do  well  to  send  back  again  immediately."  The 
regent,  laughing,  offered  Voltaire  a  pension.  His 
response  to  this  offer  was,  "I  thank  his  Royal 


A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY.     65 

Highness  for  wishing  to  provide  for  my  food;  but 
I  humbly  entreat  that  he  will  not  be  very  anxious 
to  provide  for  my  lodging." 

When  ordered  to  leave  Paris,  on  his  release  from 
his  second  imprisonment  in  the  Bastile,  Voltaire 
went  to  England ;  and  here  was,  undoubtedly,  the 
turning-point  of  his  entire  future  career.  English 
freedom  and  English  thought  were  just  beginning 
to  influence  the  thinking  minds  of  his  countrymen. 
French  literature  and  French  science  were  almost 
extinguished  under  the  combined  influences  of 
arbitrary  power  and  priestly  intolerance.  Books 
were  burned  and  authors  imprisoned  at  the  pleas- 
ure of  a  bigoted  ecclesiasticism  and  a  superstitious 
civil  rule;  and  when  educated  men  became  ac- 
quainted with  the  literature  and  laws  of  England, 
the  contrast  of  its  freedom  in  thought,  freedom  in 
worship,  its  government  of  constitutional  law  and 
guaranteed  rights,  with  their  helpless  subjection 
to  absolute  and  priestly  rule,  awakened  the  deep- 
est desire  to  study  yet  more  intimately  English 
literature,  English  science,  and  English  political 
institutions. 

Into  the  midst  of  these  institutions,  this  com- 
paratively wonderful  and  admirable  freedom  of  life 
and  thought,  Voltaire  was  thrown  by  the  operation 
of  arbitrary  power.  He  was  brought  under  such 
influences  as  that  of  Newton  in  physical  science, 
of  Locke  in  mental  philosophy,  of  Shakspeare  in 
poetry,  of  Shaft esbury  and  the  English  Deists  in 
religion.  Cousin  says,  "Before  Voltaire  knew 

5 


66      A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

England  he  was  not  Voltaire;  and  the  eighteenth 
century  was  yet  looking  for  its  king."  Everywhere 
in  his  writings  he  dwells  with  enthusiasm  on  the 
popular  freedom  of  England,  on  its  steady  mainte- 
nance of  human  rights  against  oppressors  in  Church 
and  State.  "  How  I  love,"  he  cries  out,"  the  Eng- 
lish boldness!  How  I  love  those  who  speak  out 
what  they  think !"  This  was  not  possible  in  France, 
where,  as  Buckle  says,  "  if  a  list  were  drawn  up  of 
all  the  literary  men  who  wrote  during  the  seventy 
years  succeeding  the  death  of  Louis  XIV.,  it  would 
be  found  that  at  least  nine  out  of  every  ten  had 
suffered  some  grievous  injury  from  the  govern- 
ment, and  that  a  majority  of  them  had  been  actu- 
ally thrown  into  prison.  Among  those  authors  who 
were  punished,  I  find  the  name  of  nearly  every 
Frenchman  whose  writings  have  survived  the  age 
in  which  they  were  produced." 

Voltaire  thoroughly  learns  in  England  how  to 
say  what  he  thinks.  But  if  he  likes  the  English 
freedom,  he  dislikes  the  English  gloom  of  tem- 
perament, which  he  attributes  to  the  fogginess  of 
the  climate  and  the  prevalence  of  the  east  wind. 
He  meets  some  gentlemen  who  were  in  admirable 
spirits  the  day  before,  but  who  now  are  all  gloomy 
and  depressed.  He  ventures  to  ask  one  what  is 
the  matter,  and  gets  for  a  reply  that  the  wind  is 
east.  "  At  that  instant,  a  gentleman  comes  in  and 
says,  with  unconcern,  that  Molly's  lover  had  found 
her  dead,  with  a  bloody  razor  by  her  side.  No  one 
raised  an  eyebrow  at  the  news,  one  of  the  friends 


A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY.      6/ 

only  asking,  ' What  became  of  the  lover?'  'Oh,' 
coldly  replied  one  of  the  company,  'he  afterward 
purchased  the  razor. '  I  could  not,  on  my  part,  re- 
frain from  inquiring  into  the  cause  of  the  fright- 
ful catastrophe ;  and  they  simply  replied,  'The 
wind  was  east. '  And  a  famous  physician  after- 
ward told  me  that  when  Charles  I.  was  beheaded 
and  James  II.  dethroned,  the  wind  was  east."  M. 
Taine  has  thoroughly  worked  up  this  east  wind 
in  his  criticism  of  English  literature. 

When  Voltaire  returned  to  France  and  attempted 
to  publish  a  book  on  England,  he  was  again  sent 
to  the  Bastile.  Thus  he  was  made  to  feel  the 
annoyances  of  petty  despotism  and  ecclesiastical 
hate.  They  are  the  objects  of  his  ever-bubbling 
denunciation;  but  they  do  not  wholly  pervert  his 
judgment.  When  some  one  asserted  that  the  Jesu- 
its had  a  settled  design  to  corrupt  the  morals  of 
mankind,  he  maintained  that  "no  sect  and  no  so- 
ciety ever  had,  or  ever  could  have,  such  a  design. " 
From  first  to  last,  he  protested  against  what  Bun- 
sen  called  "a  theological  system  which  had  re- 
nounced both  reason  and  science."  He  protested 
in  bitter  words  and  with  scornful  laughter  against 
the  hollow  mockeries  of  a  superstition  which  called 
itself  by  the  sacred  name  of  Christ,  and  stood  in 
i.  he  way  of  all  progress  in  knowledge,  all  real  faith 
in  God,  and  in  the  universe  as  the  creation  of  his 
universal  love. 

Voltaire  always  theoretically  protested  against 
atheism.  "  There  is  no  religion, "  he  says,  "  in  which 


68      A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

we  do  not  find  a  supreme  God  over  all ;  and  there 
is  no  one  which  was  not  originally  established  in 
order  to  make  men  less  vicious."  While  the  other 
writers  of  the  Encyclopaedia  were  pronounced  athe- 
ists and  materialists,  calling  virtue  "a  wisely  un- 
derstood selfishness,"  religion  "a  gaseous  effusion 
of  the  brain,"  and  God  "a  creation  of  superstition 
and  fear,"  Voltaire  and  Rousseau  protested  against 
these  extremes,  and  became  the  butt  of  ridicule 
among  their  compeers.  Grimm  says  sneeringly 
of  the  former,  "The  patriarch  can't  get  rid  of  his 
remunerating  avenger." 

»>(  In  1752  Voltaire  began  the  "  Dictionnaire  Phi- 
losophique."  The  idea  was  first  broached  at  one 
of  King  Frederick's  philosophic  suppers.  But  of 
all  men  Voltaire  least  deserves  the  title  of  a 
philosopher;  and  his  treatment  of  great  topics, 
not  methodically,  but  alphabetically,  well  typifies 
the  prevailing  want  of  all  method  in  thought,  and 
the  overthrow  of  what  may  be  called  true  philo- 
sophic thinking.  But  the  Dictionary  enabled  him 
to  treat  of  such  subjects  as  he  pleased,  in  the  man- 
ner he  pleased.  Wherever  the  opportunity  offers, 
he  improves  it  to  probe  superstitions,  stab  ecclesi- 
astical nonsense,  and  ridicule  received  dogmas. 
Thus,  under  the  title  "Abbe","  he  writes:  — 
•  "  I  hear  the  abbe's  of  Italy,  Germany,  Flanders,  Bur- 
gundy, saying :  '  Why  should  not  we  accumulate  riches 
and  honors?  Why  should  not  we  be  princes  like  the 
bishops  ?  They  were  originally  poor  as  we ;  they  have 
become  rich  and  exalted;  one  of  them  has  become 


A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY.      69 

superior  to  kings :  let  us  imitate  them  as  well  as 
we  can.'  You  are  right,  gentlemen.  Seize  upon  the 
earth  :  it  belongs  to  the  strong  or  the  able,  who  may  take 
possession  of  it.  You  have  made  good  use  of  the  times 
of  ignorance,  of  superstition,  of  folly,  to  despoil  us  of  our 
inheritance  and  to  trample  us  under  your  feet,  and  fatten 
yourselves  on  the  substance  of  the  wretched.  Tremble 
lest  the  day  of  reason  shall  come ! " 

He  ends  his  article  on  "Democracy  "  by  saying: 

"  Every  day  the  question  is  asked  whether  a  republican 
government  be  preferable  to  that  of  a  king.  The  discus- 
sion always  ends  by  agreeing  that  it  is  a  very  difficult 
thing  to  govern  men.  The  Jews  had  God  himself  for  a 
master,  and  see  what  has  happened  to  them :  they  have 
been  almost  always  conquered  and  enslaved ;  and  do  you 
not  think  that  to-day  they  cut  a  very  fine  figure  ?  " 

Again,  under  "Abraham,"  he  writes:  — 

"  Certainly,  if  one  looks  upon  this  account  as  natural, 
he  must  have  an  understanding  very  different  from  what 
we  have  to-day,  or  he  must  consider  each  detail  as  mirac- 
ulous, or  believe  that  the  whole  is  an  allegory ;  but  what- 
ever theory  is  adopted,  it  is  very  embarrassing." 

Among  the  works  of  Voltaire  bearing  directly 
upon  religion  is  a  collection  of  sermons  and  homi- 
lies, supposed  to  have  been  delivered  at  different 
places  and  times  by  persons  of  various  nations  and 
creeds.  He  can  thus  view  the  phases  of  Christian 
belief  and  practice  from  each  religion  as  a  central 
point.  The  first  sermon  is  delivered  to  an  assem- 
bly of  fifty,  who  meet  on  Sunday,  have  prayers  and 


70     A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

a  sermon,  then  dine  together,  and  take  up  a  col- 
lection for  the  poor.  Each  member  is  president 
in  turn,  and  conducts  the  religious  services.  The 
first  sermon  begins  thus :  — 

"  My  brothers,  religion  is  the  secret  voice  of  God  which 
speaks  to  all  men.  It  ought  to  unite  them  together,  and 
not  to  divide  them.  Every  religion,  therefore,  which  be- 
longs exclusively  to  one  nation  must  be  false.  Religion 
ought  to  be  universal,  like  morality;  and  every  religion 
which  offends  the  moral  law  must  surely  be  false." 

Then  the  morality  of  the  Scriptures  is  scruti- 
nized, as  follows :  — 

"  You  know,  brethren,  what  horror  has  seized  upon  us 
when  we  have  read  together  the  Hebrew  books,  and  our 
attention  has  been  called  to  the  violations  of  purity,  good 
faith,  justice,  charity,  and  universal  reason,  which  are  not 
only  there,  but  there  in  the  name  of  God." 

The  examples  of  such  violations  are  then  speci- 
fied in  detail,  and  the  discourse  closes  with  the 
prayer  that  men  may  become  "more  truly  reli- 
gious, adorers  of  the  one  God  of  justice  and  love, 
and  less  the  victims  of  ignorance  and  superstition." 

Another  sermon  is  by  a  Jewish  rabbi  in  Smyrna, 
who  takes  for  his  theme  the  horrible  executions 
made  by  the  savages  of  Lisbon,  called  an  auto-da- 
ft,  or  "act  of  faith,"  wherein  two  Mohammedans 
and  thirty-seven  Jews  were  burned  to  death. 

Another  takes  for  its  theme  God  and  man :  — 

"  They  say  that  God's  justice  is  not  our  justice.  They 
might  as  well  say  that  twice  two  is  four  is  not  the  same 


A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY,     fl 

truth  to  God  and  man.  There  are  not  two  different 
kinds  of  truth.  We  can  comprehend  God's  justice  only 
by  the  idea  we  have  of  justice  in  ourselves.  God,  as  an 
infinite  being,  must  be  infinitely  just." 

In  another  discourse,  it  is  maintained  — 

"  that  no  prophet  or  leader  ever  gained  disciples  by 
preaching  vice  or  crime.  Jesus  preached  a  universal 
morality,  —  love  to  God  and  love  to  man.  He  never 
intended  to  found  this  Christianity,  which,  as  it  has  ex- 
isted since  the  time  of  Constantine,  has  been  further  re- 
moved from  Jesus  than  from  Zoroaster  or  Brahma.  Jesus 
has  been  made  the  pretext  for  our  fantastic  doctrines,  our 
persecutions,  our  crimes  against  religion ;  but  he  was  not 
their  author.  The  horrible  calamities  with  which  Chris- 
tianity has  inundated  countries  where  it  has  been  intro- 
duced afflict  me,  and  make  me  shed  tears ;  and  I  despise 
that  heart  of  ice  which  is  not  moved  when  it  considers  the 
religious  troubles  which  have  agitated  England,  Ireland, 
and  Scotland." 

In  another  place  he  thus  apostrophizes :  — 

"God  of  justice  and  of  peace  !  let  us  expiate  by  tolera- 
tion the  crimes  which  an  execrable  intolerance  has  caused 
us  to  commit.  Come  to  my  house  rational  Socinian, 
friendly  Quaker,  strict  Lutheran,  gloomy  Presbyterian, 
indifferent  Episcopalian,  Mennonite,  Millenarian,  Metho- 
dist, Pietist,  —  you,  too,  mad  Papal  slave,  provided  you 
have  no  hidden  poniard  !  —  let  us  bow  together  before  the 
Supreme  Being,  and  thank  him  for  having  given  us  rea- 
son to  know  him  and  hearts  to  love  him ;  let  us  eat  joy- 
fully together  after  giving  him  thanks." 


72     A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

We  can  but  be  sorry  for  that  suggestion  of 
the  possible  dagger  hidden  under  the  robe  of 
the  Catholic  brother,  and  doubt  if  Voltaire  had 
arrived  at  perfect  toleration. 

As  an  historical  writer,  Voltaire  was  in  advance 
of  his  age.  His  speculative  view,  not  narrowed 
by  partiality  for  church  or  sect,  led  him  to  write, 
not  so  much  the  history  of  dynasties  and  special 
institutions,  as  to  unfold  the  great  interests  of 
humanity  and  its  advance  from  barbarism  to  civili- 
zation. Where  Bossuet  saw  only  one  little  stream 
of  development  through  ecclesiastical  channels, 
Voltaire  saw  the  great  outspread  ocean,  into  which 
ran  all  the  rivers  from  mountain  and  plain.  The 
principles  of  historical  criticism  he  carried  out 
consistently,  applying  them  to  the  Jewish  as  well 
as  to  Greek  and  Roman  narratives :  — 

"  These  books,"  he  says,  "  are  not  judges  in  their  own 
cause.  I  do  not  believe  Livy  when  he  tells  us  that  Ro- 
mulus was  son  of  the  god  Mars.  I  do  not  believe  the 
early  English  authors  when  they  say  that  Vortiger  was  a 
sorcerer.  I  do  not  believe  the  old  historians  of  the 
Franks  when  they  refer  their  origin  to  Francus,  the  son 
of  Hector.  And  I  ought  not  to  believe  the  Jews  on  their 
own  testimony  alone,  when  they  relate  extraordinary 
events." 

The  spirit  of  Voltaire,  mocking,  irreverent,  bit- 
ter, and  relentless,  found  an  ample  field  in  which 
to  disport  itself.  He  early  learned  to  set  little 
value  upon  the  hard  names  by  which  he  was  called. 


A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY.     73 

He  had  heard  Lord  Shaftesbury  everywhere  de- 
nounced by  Roman  Catholic  writers  as  an  atheist, 
yet  Lord  Shaftesbury  maintained  that  "  perfection 
of  virtue  was  owing  to  a  belief  in  God."  He  had 
heard  Jansenists  denounce  Jesuits,  and  Jesuits 
accuse  Jansenists  as  godless.  Even  pure  and  de- 
vout men  like  Malebranche,  Pascal,  and  Arnauld 
did  not  escape.  Those  who  spoke  or  wrote  against 
the  follies  of  the  convulsionnaire  mania,  that  seized 
entire  districts,  were  stigmatized  as  atheists;  and 
it  was  gravely  charged  against  an  advocate  of  the 
newly  introduced  discovery  of  inoculation  for  small- 
pox, that  he  was  "  an  atheist  infected  by  the  fol- 
lies of  the  English. "  He  heard  Bayle  universally 
spoken  of  as  an  atheist,  because  he  maintained  as  a 
theoretical  speculation  that  a  community  of  athe- 
ists might  still  be  held  together  by  moral  and  so- 
cial bonds, —  a  proposition  which  Mill  and  many 
others  to-day  have  advanced  with  impunity.  He 
saw  that  it  was  called  atheism  merely  to  question 
the  sufficiency  of  any  alleged  proof  of  God's  exist- 
ence, or  of  any  propositions  dependent  thereon. 

But  Voltaire  had  his  little  revanche,  when  the 
good  Dr.  Wolfius,  an  innocent  soul  and  a  worthy 
man,  ventured  to  praise  the  morality  of  the  Chi- 
nese, whom  the  Jesuit  missionaries  had  called  a 
nation  of  atheists,  and  was,  in  consequence,  over- 
whelmed with  accusations  of  atheism.  Now,  when 
extreme  words  are  thus  indiscriminately  used, 
it  shows  that  they  have  lost  their  meaning,  have 
become  emptied  of  their  real  contents.  He  who 


74      *  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

truly  believes  in  God  shrinks  from  saying  that  any 
one  is  an  atheist ;  but  he  in  whose  inmost  soul  the 
word  0eo9  stands  for  little  of  moment  will  easily 
put  the  privative  letter  before  the  word,  and  bran- 
dish it  about  as  lustily  as  an  athlete  his  Indian 
club.  In  one  of  his  prefaces,  Voltaire  says  that 
the  "odious  and  ridiculous  practice  of  accusing 
as  atheists  all  who  are  not  exactly  of  the  same 
sentiments  with  us,  has  contributed  more  than 
any  other  cause  whatever  to  render  controversy 
contemptible  to  all  Europe." 

v  Voltaire  especially  gloried  in  being  a  poet,  — 
one  of  the  crowned  kings  of  verse.  Whatever  the 
great  bards  had  done,  he  would  do  also ;  and  he  es- 
says the  construction  of  an  epic  which  should  be 
the  Iliad  of  the  French  nation.  He  writes  "  La 
Henriade."  To  us  of  to-day,  Voltaire  and  poetry 
seem  incongruous  enough.  The  poem,  however, 
on  its  publication  was  received  with  an  immense 
furor  of  praise;  but  it  requires  now  a  telescopic 
lens  of  great  magnifying  power  to  bring  it  fairly 
into  view.  Purely  local  in  its  subject,  unfortunate 
in  taking  for  that  subject  the  civil  war  in  the  time 
of  Henry  IV.  of  France,  it  contains  the  most  ab- 
surd allegorical  machinery,  and  is  true  neither  to 
ideal  demands  nor  to  historic  fact.  But  the  reaj/ 
Voltaire,  in  the  midst  of  extravagant  exaggerations 
and  conventional  imitations,  shows  himself  in  his 
description  of  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew, 
at  the  anniversary  of  which  he  was  said  always 
to  have  been  feverishly  excited;  and  not  less  he 


A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY.      75 

shows  himself  in  his  description  of  the  festival  of 
toleration  celebrated  in  the  heavenly  regions.1 

To  Voltaire  belongs  the  credit  of  widening  the 
range  of  tragic  themes  by  stepping  beyond  the 
charmed  circle  of  classic  subjects,  and  seizing 
upon  material  drawn  from  China,  from  Babylon, 
from  Mecca,  from  Peru,  and  from  French  histori- 
cal events.  He  sought  for  something  to  move 
the  fancy,  something  which  would  carry  in  itself 
•a  striking  effect  upon  the  imagination.  He  be- 
lieved in  declamation,  in  phrases,  and  in  melodra- 
matic scenes,  and  his  style  imposes  upon  the  im- 
agination rather  than  meets  its  wants.  During  his 
residence  in  England,  he  was  deeply  impressed 
by  the  drama  of  Shakspeare ;  but  he  never  did,  and 

1  The  measureless  self-conceit  and  vanity  of  the  man,  and  his  in- 
ability to  estimate  epic  poetry,  are  to  be  seen  in  some  verses  which 

he  addressed  to  Madame "  On  the  Epic  Poets,"  of  which  a 

literal  translation  is  as  follows  :  "  Full  of  beauties  and  defects,  old 
Homer  has  my  respect.  He  is,  like  all  heroes,  a  great  gossip,  but 
sublime.  Virgil  gives  more  ornament  to  his  matter,  has  more  skill, 
and  as  much  harmony ;  but  he  exhausts  himself  with  Dido,  and 
makes  a  failure  of  Lavinia.  False  brilliants  and  too  much  magic 
put  Tasso  a  notch  lower ;  but  what  will  one  not  endure  for  Armida 
and  Hermione?  Milton,  more  sublime  than  they  all,  has  less  pleas- 
ing beauties;  he  seems  to  sing  for  mad  men,  angels,  and  devils. 
After  Milton,  after  Tasso,  it  would  be  a  little  too  much  to  speak  of 
myself;  and  I  shall  wait  until  after  my  death  to  learn  what  place 
belongs  to  me."  But  the  old  wit,  even  after  he  was  fourscore,  could 
turn  a  handsome  compliment;  and  he  does  it  now, closing  his  verses 
on  the  epic  poets  as  follows :  "  You,  Madame,  have  so  much  wit,  so 
much  grace.,  and  so  much  sweetness,  if  my  place  is  in  your  heart,  it 
is  the  first  place  in  the  world."  We  may  add  that  it  is  well  for  him 
that  his  ambition  was  so  easily  satisfied. 


76      A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

never  could,  comprehend  the  real  genius  of  the 
great  dramatist,  whose  plays  he  called  monstrous 
farces,  misnamed  tragedies!  He  could  not  help 
discerning  the  impressiveness  of  individual  scenes, 
but  he  had  no  idea  of  the  dramatic  art  as  a  national 
development.  With  him,  the  spectacle  and  the 
declamation  were  all.  He  says :  — 

"  It  is  far  more  difficult  to  write  well  than  to  put  upon  the 
stage  ghosts,  assassins,  rakes,  gibbets,  and  witches.  Works 
inverse  must  depend  upon  particular  beauties ;  and  if  Addi- 
son's  '  Cato '  is  the  masterpiece  of  English  dramatic  art, 
it  owes  its  place  to  nothing  but  to  these." 

Yes;  Addison's  "Cato,"  absolutely  correct  in 
the  unities,  decorous  and  stately  in  language,  ex- 
ceedingly well -phrased,  euphonious,  and  eloquent, 
is  simply  the  antipodes  to  Shakspeare  in  all  that 
concerns  the  real  essence  of  dramatic  art.  Hence 
it  is,  no  doubt,  genuine  praise  that  Voltaire  be- 
stows upon  it.  Shakspeare  is  only  a  barbarian 
and  a  hangman,  who  looks  neither  to  style  nor  to 
conventional  unities,  nor  to  proprieties  before  the 
court  and  the  nobility.  Horrible,  that  his  kings 
should  use  the  language  of  the  canaille!  Horri- 
ble, that  genuine  emotion  should  be  expressed  in 
genuine  words  of  ordinary  life!  Horrible,  that 
men  and  women  should  do  such  a  vulgar  thing  as 
die  in  the  presence  of  princes,  and  that  princes 
and  kings  should  be  simple,  ordinary  men! 

It  is  only  natural  that  Voltaire  should  fail  to 
detect  the  purely  human  character  of  Shakspeare's 


A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY.     77 

dramas.  Quick  he  was  to  feel  deeply  and  declaim 
eloquently  against  injustice  and  wrong;  but  it  was 
only  priestly  injustice  and  ecclesiastical  wrong  that 
filled  him  thus  with  bitterness,  and  thrilled  through 
every  fibre  of  his  being.  The  worth  of  man  as 
man,  and  the  dreams  of  universal  humanity  never 
dawned  upon  Voltaire,  so  versatile,  so  acute,  so 
inimical  to  corruptions,  abuses,  and  shams.  He 
was  a  courtier  and  a  sycophant.  He  had  no  be- 
lief in  the  people,  but  an  unlimited  faith  in  the 
regeneration  of  the  world  by  philosophic  kings. 
He  had  a  profound  contempt  for  what  was  purely 
natural,  simple,  unostentatious,  and  genuine;  and 
how  could  he  discern  the  nice  humanities  of  Shak- 
speare's  genius,  the  delicate  forms  throbbing  with 
their  inner  life,  and  true  to  the  faintest  breath  of 
natural  passion  and  imaginative  love ! 

Voltaire  claims  to  have  attained  that  quality 
which  was  indispensable,  —  simplicity;  and  he 
condescendingly  exhorts  English  poets  to  soften 
the  rude  manners  of  their  savage  Melpomene,  and 
labor  for  the  approval  of  all  times  and  all  ages. 
He  would  have  them  introduce  a  happy  simpli- 
city into  their  plays,  so  tainted  with  horrors,  gib- 
bets, and  slaughter;  to  put  into  them  more  truth 
and  more  noble  images.  A  strange  spectacle, — 
Voltaire  finding  fault  with  Shakspeare  for  his  want 
of  noble  images,  true  simplicity,  and  tenderness  in 
love!  We  are  not  surprised,  therefore,  that  he 
calls  Shakspeare's  "Hamlet"  "a  gross  and  barbar- 
ous play,  which  would  not  be  endured  by  the  vilest 


78     A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

populace  of  France  or  Italy."  His  standard  of 
taste  was  wholly  conventional.  To  some  one, 
speaking  of  the  natural  force  of  that  expression 
in  Shakspeare  to  indicate  the  undisturbed  silence 
of  the  watch,  — "not  a  mouse  stirring," — he  re- 
plied: "Yes,  that  is  the  way  a  soldier  on  guard 
would  speak;  but  that  is  not  the  way  to  express 
one's  self  on  the  stage  in  the  presence  of  the  most 
noble  ladies  of  the  nation,  who  express  themselves 
in  noble  style,  and  before  whom  noble  expressions 
ought  also  to  be  used. " 

What  can  we  expect  from  such  a  point  of  view 
as  this  ?  Surely,  nothing  more  than  we  find, —  stiff 
formality,  cold  elegance,  attention  to  fine  speeches 
rather  than  dramatic  unfoldings  of  character;  strik- 
ing points  in  situation  instead  of  fidelity  to  na- 
ture; effective  declamation,  not  language  spring- 
ing from  natural  feeling  and  the  necessities  of  the 
situation,—  in  a  word,  a  drama  classical  in  form, 
correct  in  style,  and,  above  all,  pre-eminently 
genteel  and  courtly  in  air,  conforming  to  the  uni- 
ties, and  violating  none  of  the  received  critical 
dogmas.  Such  was  the  drama  of  Voltaire,  who 
slavishly  followed  precedent  here  if  nowhere 
else  in  life. 

Sharp  in  intellect,  indefatigable  in  industry, 
with  a  vast  memory  and  an  ever-ready  wit,  Voltaire 
composed  a  whole  library  of  books,  verses,  epics, 
plays,  criticisms,  letters,  biographies,  tales,  and 
histories,  each  related  to  the  times,  and  each  the 
embodiment  of  his  own  personality  in  some  promi- 


A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY.      79 

nent  phase  of  its  development.  Principles  he  had 
none;  his  own  individual  prejudices  and  likings 
were  his  only  rules.  He  obeyed  the  dominant 
impulse  of  the  moment,  and  without  real  passion 
was  the  most  passionate  of  men.  He  did  not  be- 
long to  the  new  age :  he  was  the  avenging  Nemesis 
of  the  old,  and  never  shook  off  its  poisonous  folds. 
The  strenuous  labors  of  Voltaire  for  those  con- 
demned and  oppressed  by  the  iniquitous  laws,  gave 
him  his  great  European  reputation.  This  became 
notoriety  from  the  intercourse  between  Frederick 
the  Great  and  the  renowned  poet-philosopher, — 
first  by  that  friendship  which  received  the  com- 
moner as  an  equal,  and  treated  him  as  a  brother 
king.;  and  then  by  that  enmity  which  made  Vol- 
taire almost  the  central  point  of  European  gossip 
in  court  and  social  circles.  Frederick  urged  him 
to  come  to  Berlin  in  the  following  letter,  blas- 
phemous if  it  were  not  so  fulsome  and  silly: 

"  There  is  a  small  company  of  persons  who  have  set  up 
altars  to  the  god  whom  they  have  not  seen ;  but  ycu  may 
be  sure  that  some  heretics  will  set  up  altars  to  Baal  if  our 
god  does  not  show  himself  pretty  soon.  You  will  be  re- 
ceived as  the  Virgil  of  this  century,  and  the  gentleman-in- 
ordinary  of  Louis  XV.  will  give  way,  if  he  pleases,  to  the . 
great  poet.  Adieu.  May  the  swift  steeds  of  Achilles 
bear  you  on,  and  the  highways  be  made  plain  before  you  ! 
May  the  inns  of  Germany  be  changed  into  palaces  to  re- 
ceive you  !  May  the  winds  of  ^Eolus  be  shut  up  in  their 
caves,  the  rainy  Orion  disappear,  and  our  pot-house 
nymphs  be  transformed  into  goddesses,  so  that  your 


80      A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

journey  and  reception  may  be  worthy  of  the  author  of 
'Henriade'!" 

Here  also  is  Voltaire's  .jubilate  soon  after  his 
arrival :  — 

"  My  marriage  has  taken  place  :  will  it  be  a  happy  one  ? 
My  heart  beats  violently  at  the  altar.  It  is  the  first  time 
that  a  king  has  governed  without  women  and  priests." 

When  at  one  of  the  philosophic  suppers  the 
opinion  of  the  king  was  first  asked,  Frederick 
made  no  reply.  "  Why  do  you  not  respond  ?  " 
some  one  asked.  "The  king,"  said  he,  "is  not  I: 
he  is  Voltaire.  When  I  am  at  the  head  of  a  hun- 
dred thousand  men,  I  am  the  king;  but  when  I  sup 
with  Voltaire,  he  is  the  king." 

But  after  a  while  we  hear  a  different  tune. 
The  peace  of  the  happy  family  is  disturbed,  and 
Voltaire  writes :  — 

"I  must  forget  this  three  years'  dream.  I  see  very 
well  that  the  orange  has  been  sucked,  and  all  I  can  do 
is  to  save  the  peel.  I  am  going  to  make  for  my  own  in- 
struction a  little  dictionary  of  kingly  dialect.  '  My  friend ' 
means  '  my  slave.'  '  My  dear  friend  '  means  '  You  are  more 
than  indifferent  to  me.'  '  Sup  with  me  this  evening '  means 
'  I  am  going  to  make  fun  of  you  this  evening.'  But  I  am 
very  sorrowful  and  very  ill ;  and  to  crown  my  misery,  I 
take  supper  with  the  king  !  " 

It  seems  to  have  been  a  real  matrimonial  tiff, 
and  a  case  of  incompatible  tempers.  Of  course 
a  divorce  is  possible,  and  the  great  poet-philoso- 


A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY.      8 1 

pher,  under  a  feigned  name,  left  Berlin  secretly; 
but  he  was  arrested  and  thrown  into  prison  on 
the  charge  of  stealing  a  manuscript  of  the  great 
Frederick's  poems. 

When  he  finally  retired  to  Ferney,  in  Switzer- 
land, Voltaire  was  more  than  sixty  years  old,  hav- 
ing in  the  mean  time  accumulated  a  large  fortune 
and  become  the  central  object  of  friends  and  foes. 
To  receive  homage  was  the  claim  of  this  intel- 
lectual king, — homage  being  as  necessary  to  him 
as  to  any  earthly  potentate.  The  place  fixed  upon 
for  his  abode  bordered  upon  four  different  coun- 
tries, and  he  had  now  throngs  of  worshippers  and 
multitudes  of  readers.  With  indefatigable  indus- 
try he  writes  epistles,  pamphlets,  poems,  flying 
leaves  of  all  sorts,  to  amuse  and  interest  an  ap- 
plauding, a  horror-stricken,  a  distracted  Europe 
hurrying  to  its  judgment-day.  He  is  absolutely 
without  any  of  the  ordinary  and  accepted  rever- 
ences, fears,  respects,  or  restraints;  a  devastating 
fire  seems  to  have  swept  over  and  through  his  soul. 
But  ecclesiastical  abuses  and  intolerant  cruelty 
touch  a  chord  in  him  that  never  ceases  to  vibrate 
and  send  forth  notes  of  warning  and  protest.  He 
says  what  he  likes,  and  does  what  a  passing  caprice 
dictates.  A  church  on  his  grounds  intercepts  a 
fine  view:  he  pulls  it  down  and  builds  another, 
over  whose  portals  is  the  inscription  in  Latin, 
DEO  EREXIT  VOLTAIRE,  — "  Erected  to  God  by 
Voltaire."  He  builds  a  watch  manufactory  and 
a  theatre,  drains  marshes,  assists  the  poor,  buys 

6 


82      A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

books  and  pictures,  and  proposes  to  partake  of  the 
communion  like  "any  other  Christian  citizen." 
But  the  bishop  puts  an  injunction  on  this  by  or- 
dering that  no  priest  shall  receive  Voltaire's  con- 
fession or  grant  him  absolution.  Not  to  be  balked 
thus,  the  cunning  old  head  pretends  to  be  on  his 
death -bed,  sends  for  a  priest,  from  whom  he  re- 
ceives absolution,  and  gets  the  fact  duly  attested 
by  the  public  notary.  In  return,  moreover,  for  a 
piece  of  profitable  intercession,  he  receives  the  title 
"temporal  father  of  the  Capuchins  of  Gex,"  which 
he  makes  a  matter  of  humorous  boasting. 

Voltaire's  wit  spares  neither  friend  nor  foe.  A 
provincial  advocate  in  an  eloquent  address  salut- 
ing him  as  a  light  of  the  world,  he  called  to  his 
niece,  Madame  Denis,  "  Madame,  bring  here  the 
snuffers ! "  When  he  is  past  eighty,  an  enthusi- 
astic young  Englishwoman  visits  him,  and  thus 
writes  concerning  her  interview:  — 

"Never  did  the  transports  of  Saint  Theresa  surpass 
those  which  I  experienced  at  the  sight  of  this  great  man. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  in  the  presence  of  a  god.  My 
heart  beat  with  violence  as  I  entered  the  courtyard  of 
this  consecrated  chateau.  Voltaire  soon  came  in,  saying : 
'  Where  is  she  ?  It  is  a  soul  that  I  am  looking  for.'  I 
replied,  '  This  soul  is  all  filled  with  you :  if  your  books 
were  all  burned,  they  would  be  found  in  me."  '  Revised 
and  corrected,'  was  his  witty  reply." 

When  taking  leave,  this  devoted  admirer  asked 
a  blessing  from  the  object  of  her  adoration.  At 


A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY.      83 

first  he  seemed  at  a  loss  how  to  respond  to  the 
request,  but  finally  said :  "  I  cannot  bless  you  with 
my  fingers,  like  a  priest.  I  would  rather  put 
my  arms  around  your  neck."  And  this  was  his 
benediction. 

In  his  eighty-fifth  year,  when  Voltaire  went  for 
the  last  time  to  Paris,  February,  1778,  he  was 
asked  the  usual  question  at  the  customs -barrier, 
whether  he  had  anything  contraband  among  his 
luggage.  "Gentlemen,"  he  replied,  "the  only 
contraband  article  I  have  is  myself."  But  this 
contraband  received  such  an  ovation  as  monarch 
or  conqueror  rarely  receives.  The  streets,  the 
academy,  the  theatre,  all  ages  and  conditions  ex- 
cept the  court  and  the  clergy,  vied  in  paying  him 
homage.  "  Long  live  Voltaire,  the  persecuted  of 
fifty  years!  "  was  the  cry.  It  was  his  day  of  jubi- 
lant success,  and  that  all-absorbing  love  of  fame 
which  he  cherished  seemed  fully  gratified.  But 
let  it  be  recorded  to  his  credit  that  no  "sweet 
voices  "  of  the  applauding  thousands  gave  him  so 
much  delight  as  the  reply  of  the  woman,  who, 
when  asked  who  it  was  the  crowd  were  shouting 
after,  said :  "  Do  you  not  know  that  he  is  the 
savior  of  Galas  ?  "  l 

Overwhelmed  by  the  excitement  of  his  trium- 
phal visit, —  "stifled  with  roses,"  as  he  himself 

1  Jean  Calas  had  been  condemned  at  Toulouse,  and  broken  on 
the  wheel,  for  a  crime  of  which  he  was  innocent,  and  his  family  had 
been  driven  from  the  country.  Through  Voltaire's  generous  exer- 
tions and  untiring  zeal,  the  sentence  was  annulled  and  the  family  of 
Calas  partially  indemnified. 


84      A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

expresses  it, —  Voltaire  died  in  Paris  in  1778.  In 
1791  his  coffin  was  borne  to  the  Pantheon,  and 
deposited  between  that  of  Descartes  and  of  Mira- 
beau, —  "an  apotheosis,"  says  Lamartine,  in  his 
rhetorical  phrase,  of  "  intelligence  entering  in  tri- 
umph over  the  ruins  of  prejudice  into  the  city  of 
Louis  XIV." 

But  what  of  Voltaire's  work  ?  Quinet  compares 
this  with  that  of  the  angel  of  wrath  pouring  out 
upon  the  condemned  Cities  of  the  Plain  sulphur 
and  bitumen  in  the  midst  of  the  howling  tempest : 
"  So  the  spirit  of  Voltaire  walked  over  the  face  of 
the  divine  city,  and  poured  out  gall,  irony,  and 
ashes.  His  work  was  not  that  of  a  private  indi- 
vidual, but  of  an  instrument  of  the  vengeance  of 
God."  There  was  surely  scope  enough  for  any 
well-tempered  instrument  of  this  sort.  As  late  as 
the  year  1763  a  young  man  was  sentenced  to  the 
torture  of  the  rack,  to  have  his  tongue  torn  out, 
and  then  to  be  beheaded.  For  what  ?  For  insult- 
ing a  crucifix  placed  upon  a  bridge!  In  1762  a 
Protestant  father  and  mother  were  condemned  to 
death  on  the  charge  of  having  killed  their  own 
daughter,  who  escaped  from  a  convent  and  was 
found  drowned  in  a  well.  At  about  the  same 
time,  five  young  men  died  on  the  scaffold  for  not 
taking  off  their  hats  when  they  saw  a  priestly 
procession  pass  along  at  a  distance  of  thirty  paces. 
Well  may  Voltaire  say,  in  a  letter  to  the  Arch- 
duchess Louisa,  "Religion  among  us  is  preached 
by  executioners."  Is  it  strange  that  Voltaire  re- 


A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEEi\'TH  CENTURY.      85 

taliated  in  the  same  spirit?  Enfantin  has  rightly 
characterized  Voltaire  as  doing  his  work  in  the 
spirit  of  an  executioner,  because  "he  struck  with- 
out sympathy  for  his  victims."  Yes,  it  was  God's 
century  of  judgment  and  destruction ;  and  Voltaire 
was  its  chief  apostle. 

That  Voltaire  was  not  only  the  representative 
but  the  child  of  his  epoch,  Strauss  pleads  as  a  bar 
against  personal  criticism  and  individual  condem- 
nation. According  to  him,  Voltaire's  character  is 
the  natural  result  of  the  spirit  of  the  time,  as  well 
as  the  only  fitting  instrument  by  which  the  faults  of 
that  time  could  be  made  known  and  chastised.  The 
corrupt  time  itself  produced  the  lash  with  which 
it  was  scourged.  Had  there  been  only  a  pure, 
calm,  dispassionate  temper  in  Voltaire's  attack,  it 
would  have  availed  nothing;  for  it  would  have 
been  like  a  flame  within  the  wire  network  of  the 
safety-lamp,  and  no  explosion  would  have  taken 
place  in  the  poisonous  and  deadly  gasses.  Only 
his  sharp,  bitter,  cutting  sarcasm  and  contempt 
could  pierce  old  abuses  to  the  heart,  and  open 
the  way  for  higher  truths. 

In  this  respect,  Voltaire  was,  indeed,  the  man  for 
the  hour.  He  seemed  denuded  of  all  reverence  and 
all  reserve;  and  contempt  seemed  his  native  air. 
His  faults  of  temper,  his  lack  of  conscience,  his 
bristling  self-love  and  overweening  conceit,  served 
him  well.  We  will  endeavor  to  be  as  grateful  as 
we  can  for  the  hail  and  the  pitch,  the  brimstone 
and  the  fire ;  but  they  are  hail  and  pitch  and  brim- 


86      A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

stone  and  fire  still.  We  will  do  our  best  to  ac- 
knowledge that  debt  of  gratitude  we  owe  to  him; 
for,  according  to  Lord  Brougham,  "  no  one  can  be 
named  since  the  days  of  Luther  to  whom  the  spirit 
of  free  inquiry  —  nay,  the  emancipation  of  the 
human  mind  from  spiritual  tyranny  —  owes  a  more 
lasting  debt  of  gratitude. " 

It  is  hard,  however,  for  us  to  separate  the  work 
done  from  the  personal  merit  or  demerit  of  the 
instrument  through  which  it  was  done;  but  that 
separation  must  be  made  if  any  just  verdict  is  to 
be  rendered  in  regard  to  the  work  itself.  Mo- 
tives, character,  individual  excellence  or  worth- 
lessness,  have  no  bearing  upon  this  except  as 
furthering  or  detracting  from  the  results  brought 
about.  With  the  confident  audacity  of  an  un- 
measured reliance  upon  his  splendid  talents,  his 
shrewd  cunning,  his  perception  of  the  vice,  the  in- 
humanity, the  weak  points,  of  the  assumptions  of 
the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  —  everywhere  hostile 
to  freedom  of  thought,  to  true  nationality,  to  the 
unity  of  the  family  and  the  State,  to  all  advance  in 
science,  all  social  changes  not  in  the  line  of  its 
own  ecclesiastic  dogmas  and  claims  to  domina- 
tion,—  Voltaire  led  the  attack  against  superstition; 
the  infamous  foe,  as  he  regarded  it,  of  the  hu- 
man race.  He  was  fettered  by  no  scruples  of  con- 
scientious care  lest  he  should  wound  this  tender 
sentiment  or  that  holy  trust;  for  he  was  without 
any  conception  of  the  meaning  of  those  deep  reli- 
gious tendencies  which  pardon  everything  to  that 


A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY.      87 

which  is  associated  with  their  rise  and  their 
vivacity  of  impress  iveness.  He  was  carried  by 
no  flight  of  genius  into  those  higher  visions  which 
belong  to  creative  power;  so  that  all  he  wrote 
found  ready  ears  and  recipient  response.  So  ob- 
tuse was  he  to  the  noblest  unfoldings  of  the  genius 
of  religion  and  poetry  in  the  past,  that  the  Gothic 
cathedral  was  to  him  but  "a  fantastic  compound 
of  rudeness  and  filigree."  This  highest  quality 
of  genius  would  have  been  a  fatal  obstacle  to  such 
a  work  as  Voltaire  was  the  instrument  in  effect- 
ing, and  would  have  incapacitated  him  from  being 
the  successful  leader  in  that  forlorn  hope  of  at- 
tacking the  stronghold  of  ecclesiastical  absolutism 
which  banished,  imprisoned,  cursed,  and  tortured 
wherever  there  was  opposition  to  its  claims.  That 
opposition  was  everywhere;  for  it  was  the  rising 
spirit  of  modern  society  seeking  to  establish  itself 
on  the  basis  of  humanity  and  common-sense. 

That  Voltaire  held  only  a  secondary  place  among 
the  world's  great  leaders  and  representative  men 
was  the  chief  factor  in  his  success.  Comte  was 
right  in  calling  him  "the  most  distinguished  type 
in  history  of  the  provisional  laborers  in  intellectual 
and  social  reform, —  one  who  to  the  remotest  pos- 
terity will  hold  a  position  entirely  unique,  in  whom 
there  was  the  most  admirable  combination,  such  as 
may  never  again  be  found,  of  those  various  second- 
ary qualities  of  mind  which  so  often  wear  the  se- 
ductive guise  of  original  genius." 

Here  is  the  key  to  that  wonderful  mastership, 


88       A  SCEPTIC  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

that  phenomenal  greatness,  of  him  who  has  been 
called  "Voltaire,  the  king."  His  work  against 
the  mighty  foe  of  human  freedom,  of  independent 
nationalities,  of  the  sanctuary  of-  conscience  and 
spiritual  personality,  has  not  yet  come  to  an  end ; 
but  it  is  in  far  different  hands,  and  must  be  ac- 
complished by  far  different  methods.  The  mock- 
ing laughter  dies  away ;  the  fire  and  the  whirlwind 
have  cleared  the  atmosphere  so  that  we  can  now 
listen  to  the  still,  small  voice  that  speaks  within 
the  inmost  soul,  and  cheers  every  sincere  longing 
"for  God,  freedom,  and  immortality." 


IV. 


NEMESIS   IN    GREEK  TRAGEDY. 

"CROSSING  a  bare  common  in  snow-puddles  at 
twilight,  under  a  clouded  sky,  without  having  in 
my  thoughts  any  occurrence  of  special  good  for- 
tune, I  have  enjoyed  a  perfect  exhilaration.  Al- 
most I  fear  to  think  how  glad  I  am."  Thus,  from 
his  own  relation  to  primitive  nature,  spoke  Emer- 
son, our  modern  seer.  The  gladness  was  too  great 
for  the  small  mortal  cup,  and  it  seemed  almost  an 
invitation  to  the  tempest  that  should  follow. 

The  old  Greek  felt  the  same  trembling  of  the 
balance  between  joy  and  fear,  and  Nemesis  was 
born.  With  the  generality  of  men  the  gladness 
comes,  not  when  wading  through  snow-puddles, 
but  in  flowery  meadows  and  grassy  paths;  not  at 
twilight  and  under  a  cloudy  sky,  but  in  the  broad 
sunshine  and  glow  of  day.  The  Greek  saw  that 
nothing  was  stable,  nothing  permanent  in  the 
heavens  above  or  in  the  earth  beneath ;  and  out  of 
his  subjective  experience  he  created  an  objective 
character,  exalting  the  human  appearance  into  a 
divine  personification.  It  was  not  for  man  with 
his  limitations  of  state,  nature,  life,  and  means  of 
good,  to  be  too  prosperous,  too  knowing,  too  happy, 


QO  NEMESIS  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY. 

too  powerful.  Says  Herodotus:  "The  divinity, 
having  given  a  taste  of  the  sweetness  of  life,  is 
found  afterward  to  be  envious  of  that  happiness." 
If  man  were  completely  healed  of  disease,  of  course 
Pluto  would  be  robbed  of  his  rightful  prey;  and 
therefore  Esculapius,  the  healer  of  the  sick,  is 
stricken  down  by  the  thunderbolt  of  Jove.  Pro- 
metheus, who  takes  pity  on  the  shivering,  helpless 
race  of  man  and  steals  for  him  the  spark  of  fire 
from  heaven,  is  chained  and  tortured.  Solon  tells 
Croesus  that  "the  divinity  is  always  jealous,  and 
that  time  constrains  men  to  see  and  to  suffer  many 
things  that  they  would  not  willingly  see  and  suf- 
fer." Amasis  says  to  his  friend  Polycrates,  "Your 
too  great  good  fortune  does  not  please  me,  knowing 
as  I  do  that  the  divinity  is  jealous.  I  cannot 
remember  that  I  ever  heard  of  any  man,  who,  hav- 
ing been  continually  successful,  did  not  utterly 
perish."  Herodotus  puts  into  the  mouth  of  Ar- 
tabanus,  when  discussing  with  Xerxes  the  expe- 
diency of  the  war  with  Greece,  these  words,  in 
which  the  aspect  of  the  deity  toward  man,  or  the 
divine  Nemesis,  is  clearly  stated :  — 

"  Do  you  not  see  how  the  deity  always  hurls  his  thun- 
derbolts against  the  loftiest  buildings  and  the  highest 
trees?  For  the  deity  strikes  down  everything  that  is 
exalted  too  high;  and  a  large  army  is  often  destroyed 
by  a  small  one,  when  the  jealous  deity  strikes  them  with 
panic  or  lightning,  so  that  they  perish  unworthily,  because 
the  deity  will  not  suffer  any  one  but  himself  to  cherish 
lofty  thoughts." 


NEMESIS  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY.  91 

So  it  is,  that,  transferring  his  own  subjective 
experience,  his  own  standard  of  judgment,  to  the 
government  of  the  world,  before  he  has  recognized 
the  operation  of  essential  laws  working  in  himself 
and  in  all  human  souls,  man  sees  a  deity  envying 
human  prosperity,  jealous  of  his  own  glory,  crush- 
ing out  pride,  abasing  high  thoughts,  and  bringing 
the  creature  of  a  day  to  a  sense  of  his  nothingness 
and  his  low  estate. 

There  were  set  bounds,  impassable  to  human 
strength,  skill,  wisdom,  enjoyment;  and  to  go 
beyond  this  bound  in  any  respect  was  to  brave 
the  higher,  divine  power,  and  to  offend  that  ma- 
jestic leveller,  that  equal  distributor, —  Nemesis. 
The  gods  alone  were  the  blessed  ones,  to  whom 
no  decay  or  death  came,  and  it  was  not  for  man 
to  rival  the  gods.  Pindar  prays  that  the  victor, 
whose  success  he  celebrates,  may  not  excite  against 
him  the  jealous  Nemesis. 

This  is  the  language  from  a  human  point  of  view: 
it  is  apparent,  not  absolute  truth.  But  with  the 
growth  of  the  Greek  man  comes  also  the  growth  of 
the  Greek  gods.  The  Hellenic  ideal  is  harmony, 
proportion  of  parts ;  nothing  in  excess,  the  golden 
mean,  moderation  in  all  things ;  no  excess  in  feel- 
ing, life,  or  art ;  the  keeping  of  due  bounds  in  liv- 
ing, in  behavior,  in  utterance,  in  thought.  Within 
these  bounds  Nemesis  was  powerless ;  but  outside 
of  them  there  was  no  escape  from  her  omnipotent 
clutch.  Aristotle,  with  his  usual"  perspicacity, 
calls  Nemesis  "the  act  of  moral  judgment  awarding 


92  NEMESIS  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY. 

what  is  due."  The  emotion  felt  in  awarding  this 
judgment  will  derive  its  quality  from  the  nature  of 
him  who  feels  it.  The  malicious  man  rejoices  at 
the  misfortunes  of  others ;  the  envious  man  grieves 
at  the  prosperity  of  all  but  himself;  while,  holding 
the  mean  between  these  extremes,  the  just  man, 
inspired  by  Nemesis,  grieves  only  at  the  prosperity 
of  the  unworthy.  Thus  in  Greek  thought  the  fierce, 
envious,  malicious  gods  recede,  and  a  divine  power, 
an  all-adjusting  righteous  element,  a  divine  Neme- 
sis, presides  over  human  destinies. 

"  Mountain  tall  and  ocean  deep 
Trembling  balance  duly  keep." 

As  Saint  Victor1  says  of  Zeus,  that,  before  he 
became  condensed  into  the  grand  form  of  King 
of  Olympus,  he  wandered  in  the  storms  of  air, —  so 
we  may  say  of  Nemesis,  that,  before  she  figured  as 
the  celestial  maiden  with  the  right  hand  pointing 
to  the  breast,  the  eyes  cast  down  in  reflective 
meditation,  and  the  left  hand  holding  a  bridle,  or 
a  chalice  carried  with  even  hand  so  that  no  drop 
was  spilled,  —  before  this  crystallization  into  the 
expression  of  a  harmonious  law  of  moral  order 
took  place,  Nemesis  was  the  implacable  Erinnys, 
the  stern  Dice,  the  inexorable  Adrasteia,  raging 
with  envy  at  human  success,  striking  down  every 
head  as  it  emerged  from  the  low  mortal  level;  a 
child  of  night  or  of  Erebus,  a  formless  dread  im- 
pending over  what  was  great  and  beautiful  and 
strong. 

1  P.  DE  SAINT  VICTOR  :  Les  Deux  Masques,  vol.  i.  p.  96. 


NEMESIS  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY.  93 

With  an  intuition  into  the  moral  order  of  things, 
the  poet  Hesiod  called  Nemesis  the  daughter  of 
Night,  just  as  he  called  Deceit  and  Discord  and 
crumbling  Old  Age  daughters  of  Night;  and  in 
the  popular  speech  whatever  injustice,  overween- 
ing presumption,  or  manifest  excess  of  evil  ten- 
dency brought  about  punishment  was  called  a 
Nemesis,  or  divine  retribution.  An  intense,  per- 
sonifying passion  makes  Electra,  in  Sophocles, 
appeal  to  Nemesis  as  the  avenging  spirit  of  the 
dead  when  Clytemnestra  says  that  her  husband 
had  been  rightly  slain:  "Oh  hear,"  Electra  ex- 
claims, believing  her  brother  to  be  dead, —  "oh 
hear,  thou  Nemesis  of  the  but  lately  dead ! " 

It  was  the  Greek  love  of  order  and  proportion, 
the  Greek  intuition  of  a  principle  of  righteousness 
and  moral  harmony,  which  made  Nemesis  not  so 
much  a  mythologic  personality,  though  sculptured 
by  the  artist  and  appealed  to  as  a  deity,  as  a  uni- 
versally spread  consciousness  of  an  ever-present 
spirit  of  beauty,  which  thrust  away  the  deformed 
and  the  vulgar;  the  spirit  of  majestic  serenity 
and  repose,  which  quieted  all  stormy  scenes  and 
all  violent  extremes;  of  an  inward  consciousness 
of  right,  the  voice  of  God  inning  in  the  flesh,  and 
man's  sufficient  consolation  and  strength.  Soc- 
rates, in  the  "  Republic,"  when  about  to  express  an 
opinion  where  he  does  not  feel  the  absolute  surety 
of  truth,  invokes  Adrasteia,  or  Nemesis,  that  he 
may  not  say  rashly  and  inconsiderately  what  would 
mislead  himself  and  his  friends,  and  so  be  worse 


94  NEMESIS  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY. 

than  the  homicide  whom  that  implacable  goddess 
punished.  Not  with  impunity  could  the  word 
transgressing  the  boundary  line  of  the  eternal 
realities,  be  uttered;  and  even  involuntary  error 
could  not  go  unscathed. 

Thus  is  developed  in  the  Hellenic  mind  the  idea 
of  a  moral  law,  pervading  the  world  and  immanent 
in  life,  which  restored  every  disturbed  equilibrium, 
bringing  down  everything  to  a  truly  human  level, 
and  suffering  no  excess  in  height  or  measure  be- 
yond the  real  standard  of  a  common  humanity. 
What  the  impartial  conscience  decreed,  that  was 
the  verdict  of  Nemesis.  That  tendency  of  things 
by  which  secret  crimes  were  brought  to  light,  by 
which  a  violation  of  the  unwritten  laws  against 
the  helpless,  the  dead,  the  innocent  was  avenged, 
was  a  part  of  Nemesis.  She  was  not  so  much  a  dis- 
tinct deity  with  a  definite  form  and  attributes,  as 
a  concrete  word  by  which  the  moral  harmony  of 
the  world  was  indicated, —  that  tendency  which 
makes  for  righteouness  in  every  sphere  of  being; 
which  will  not  let  things  be  forever  mismanaged, 
or  what  is  unjust  and  unfair  forever  prevail. 

The  genius  of  ^Eschylus  was  essentially  poetic, 
and  he  wrought  out  in  massive  sublimity,  in  grand 
symbols,  the  fearful  results  of  violated  righteous- 
ness. He  dealt  in  colossal  types  of  suffering  and 
woe,  of  struggles  with  the  divine  ordinances,  of 
efforts  to  resist  the  operating  principles  of  eternal 
justice,  of  mortal  weakness  contending  with  the 
immortal  and  omnipotent  Fates.  With  him  poetry 


NEMESIS  JN  GREEK  TRAGEDY.  95 

performed  its  true  work  of  freeing  and  exalting 
humanity.  Too  much  has  been  made  of  Fate  as 
the  overmastering  idea  in  the  drama  of  ^Eschylus. 
No  dramatic  action  can  ever  come  from  purely  pas- 
sive tools ;  for  unless  the  doer  feels  the  re-bound 
of  his  own  voluntary  acts,  he  is  but  a  wire-pulled 
puppet,  and  would  be  no  more  interesting  than  a 
rock  heaved  up  by  the  resistless  wave. 

The  spectators  of  the  dramas  of  yEschylus  and 
of  Sophocles  were  present  at  scenes  in  which  the 
beings  whom  the  people  regarded  as  supernatural 
powers,  and  whose  guardian  help  they  invoked, 
were  represented.  The  destiny  of  the  characters 
in  these  dramas  was  unrolled  before  the  specta- 
tors, who  were  called  upon  to  sympathize  with 
their  sorrows  and  their  struggles.  Thus,  as  Sel- 
lar  says:  "A  highly  idealized  and  profoundly 
religious  character  was  imparted  to  the  tragic  re- 
presentation of  human  passion  and  destiny  on  the 
Athenian  stage."1  There,  in  the  condensed  epi- 
tome of  years  and  centuries  before  his  eyes,  was 
the  poet's  reconciliation  of  the  divine  and  human 
in  character,  history,  and  life.  It  was  to  the  Athe- 
nian what  at  some  periods  has  been  the  inspired 
preacher  to  the  Christian  church, — when  the  list- 
ener found  himself;  discerned  the  higher  meaning 
of  life;  saw  the  light  from  supernal  spheres  let 
in  upon  his  soul,  and  found  for  what  was  best  and 
noblest  in  himself  inspiration  and  help. 

No  more  effective  presentation  of  the  divine 
1  Roman  Poets  of  the  Republic,  p.  124. 


96  NEMESIS  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY. 

Nemesis  as  apprehended  in  the  higher  Hellenic 
consciousness  could  be  given,  than  we  have  in  the 
"  Persians  "  of  ^Eschylus.  How  shall  the  poet  deal 
with  this  subject,  the  overthrow  of  the  Persians,  — 
a  subject  so  near  to  and  so  much  a  part  of  the 
audience  themselves,  —  in  order  to  throw  around 
its  details  the  haze  of  poetic  illusion,  and  raise 
it  into  the  sphere  of  ideal  grandeur  and  moral 
beauty?  He  accomplishes  this  end  by  one  simple 
stroke:  he  transfers  the  scene  of  the  drama  to  the 
Persian  capital  and  the  Persian  palace.  That  per- 
spective which  remoteness  of  time  gives  to  deeds 
of  the  past,  is  here  furnished  by  distance  of  space 
and  the  imaginative  glories  of  a  far-famed  court, 
of  whose  magnificence  and  power  the  recent  inva- 
sion had  given  the  too-evident  proof.  This  mighty 
empire  had  been  defeated,  and  the  Athenian  spec- 
tators had  themselves  been  the  main  agents  of  the 
defeat.  Athens  was  to  be  glorified,  and  yet  with- 
out awakening  that  overweening  pride  and  self- 
confidence  so  fatal  to  soberness  of  thought ;  without 
calling  forth  the  latent  demons  of  self-exulting 
praise,  or  leading  to  barbarous  peals  of  empty  ex- 
hilaration. The  Athenian  exploits  are  recounted; 
but  throughout  the  entire  drama  there  is  the  minor 
key  of  sorrow,  of  vpity,  of  deep  humility,  of  intense 
commiseration  and  a  trembling  human  fear,  which 
will  not  suffer  the  triumph  over  the  foe  to  be  too 
selfish  or  too  pronounced.  The  chorus  of  reverend 
men  left  to  keep  watch  and  ward  over  the  king- 
dom expresses  its  forebodings  of  ill.  It  exults  in 


NEMESIS  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY.  97 

the  proud  array  of  the  kingly  host,  which,  city- 
destroying,  marched  across  the  sea  paved  with 
planks  and  bound  with  cord  and  chain.  But 
there  steals  over  this  bright  sunlight  a  creeping 
mist;  it  is  the  thought  that  the  gods  do  not  allow 
unmingled  prosperity:  — 

"  But  when  the  gods  deceive, 

Wiles  which  immortals  weave 

Who  shall  beware  ? 

Who,  when  their  nets  surround, 

Breaks  with  a  nimble  bound 

Out  of  their  snare  ?  " 

Urged  by  the  same  presentiment  of  ill,  the  aged 
queen  of  Darius  and  mother  of  Xerxes  comes  to 
consult  these  ancient,  trusty  Persian  men  in  re- 
gard to  the  dreams  that  have  nightly  disturbed  her 
rest  since  her  son  departed  with  the  army  to  "  bring 
destruction  on  Attica."  They  advise  her  to  sup- 
plicate the  gods  —  and  especially  the  dread  shade  of 
Darius,  who  had  visited  her  in  visions  of  the  night 
—  to  send  blessings  on  her  son.  She  then  asks  them 
about  Athens ;  and  the  praise  of  Athens  is  put  into 
the  mouth  of  the  Persian  chorus.  Now  enters  a 
messenger  announcing  the  total  destruction  of  the 
Persian  host;  and  the  chorus  responds  with  its 
mournful  wail,  as  one  by  one  each  feature  of  the 
awful  disaster  is  recounted.  From  the  summoned 
shade  of  Darius  comes  the  counsel  not  to  invade 
Greece  again ;  and  it  utters  the  solemn  moral,  — 

"  Proud  thoughts  were  never  made  for  mortal  man ; 
A  haughty  spirit  blossoming  bears  a  crop 
Of  woe,  and  reaps  a  harvest  of  despair. 
7 


98  NEMESIS  IN  GREEK   TRAGEDY, 

Jove  is  chastiser  of  high-vaunting  thoughts, 
And  heavily  falls  his  judgment  on  the  proud." 

Another  scene,  and  the  final  one,  brings  to  a 
climax  this  solemn  unfolding  of  the  divine  Neme- 
sis. Xerxes  himself  enters, — a  lonely  fugitive, 
bemoaning  his  fate;  his  regal  robes  rent,  his  voice 
raised  in  agonizing  wail  over  himself  and  his  coun- 
try, for  whose  loss  and  misery  he  is  to  blame. 
Instead  of  triumphal  shouts,  we  hear  these  wail- 
ings  of  woe  over  the  brave  whose  dead  bodies  are 
washing  up  against  the  rocky  cliffs  of  Greece,  or 
strewing  its  shores.  The  god  on  earth  is  trampled 
in  the  dust;  the  god  in  heaven  alone  rules.  The 
chorus  tears  off  its  venerable  beard,  tears  off  its 
folded  robe,  and  with  reiterated  exclamations  of 
woeful  lament,  mingling  its  tears  and  wails  with 
those  of  the  humiliated,  weeping  king,  leaves  in 
solemn  file  the  desolate  stage. 

How  simple  the  means,  how  effective  the  results 
of  this  ancient  lyric  tragedy !  For  actors,  a  few  aged 
men  as  a  chorus,  a  messenger,  a  widowed  queen,  a 
ghostly  shade  from  the  tomb,  a  fugitive  king.  But 
sit  there  with  the  Athenian  upon  his  bench;  see 
with  his  eyes,  and  hear  with  his  ears.  Listen  to 
the  first  distant  thunder  of  mournful  presentiment, 
until  the  tempest  bursts  forth,  and  sky  and  earth  are 
enveloped  in  one  sheet  of  elemental  flame.  Only 
thus  can  one  even  faintly  appreciate  the  effect  of 
such  an  acted  poem  of  the  divine  Nemesis,  with 
all  the  accessories  of  fitting  music  and  stately 
dance,  shrill  cries  and  piercing  strains  of  souls 


NEMESIS  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY.  99 

abandoned  to  utmost  sorrow,  heads  bare  and  bowed 
down  over  torn  bosoms,  with  streaming  tears  and 
tottering  steps,  in  the  royal  palace  of  the  proud 
monarch  of  all  those  vast  realms  of  unimaginable 
magnificence:  truly  a  divine  lesson,  which  left  no 
room  for  unseemly  ebullition  of  personal  exulta- 
tion, for  no  overweening  pride  of  victory.  There 
was  the  divine  verdict  against  inordinate  human 
vanity  and  a  too  towering  prosperity.  There  was 
the  warning,  full  of  solemnity  and  pathos,  to  those 
who  should  despise  the  great  laws  of  equal  justice 
and  of  divine  moderation :  — 

"  Let  no  man,  in  his  scorn  of  present  fortune 
And  thirst  for  other,  mar  his  good  estate ; 
Zeus  is  the  avenger  of  o'erlofty  thoughts, 
A  strict  investigator." 

But  this  grand  national  panorama  is  an  excep- 
tional subject  in  ^Eschylus.  More  in  accordance 
with  the  mythologic  themes  generally  treated  is 
the  "Oresteia," — that  tale  of  fearful  crime  and 
its  retribution ;  of  the  fury -driven  avenger  fleeing 
from  the  altar,  and  of  that  merciful  wisdom  which 
at  last,  with  its  sovereign  grace,  acquits  the  offen- 
der and  appeases  the  angry  and  avenging  deities. 
It  is  an  exhibition  terrible  in  its  simplicity  of  an 
avenging,  implacable  outside  force  which  will  not 
let  the  offender  rest  quiet  in  his  offence.  The  di- 
alogue, the  chorus,  the  entire  action,  conspire  to 
unfold  the  ideal  germs  of  even-handed  justice 
contained  in  the  shadowy  and  frowning  myths  of 


100  NEMESIS  IN  GREEK   TRAGEDY. 

historic  tradition.  The  furies  of  the  father  are 
appeased  only  to  awaken  the  more  savage  furies 
of  the  mother  against  the  son  who  had  shed  her 
blood.  In  vain  does  Orestes  appeal  to  the  All- 
seeing  Sun  to  witness  that  he  has  justly  stained 
his  hand  in  a  mother's  blood.  He  is  not  at  peace; 
he  sees  in  the  background  the  Furies  with  awful 
faces,  black  garments,  and  terrible  mien,  with  hair 
of  writhing  snakes  and  scorpion  whips,  howling 
for  their  prey.  To  the  chorus  it  is  but  a  vain 
phantom,  but  to  him  they  are  "substantial  horrors, 
the  infernal  hounds  "  sent  from  his  mother.  They 
swarm  around  him,  they  hunt  him  forth,  and  not 
even  at  Loxias'  altar  can  he  be  at  rest.  Only  the  se- 
rene Goddess  of  Wisdom  can  give  the  casting  vote 
which  releases  him  from  the  maddening  avengers. 

Here  we  have,  in  a  series  of  connected  tableaux, 
the  delineation  of  that  process  by  which  a  right- 
eous Nemesis  secures  its  ends. 

With  Sophocles  there  are  the  same  main  inci- 
dents of  the  story;  but  when  Orestes  avenges  his 
father's  death  he  does  a  righteous  act,  which  Apollo 
has  commanded  and  approves  of,  and  the  work  of 
Nemesis  is  completed.  Brother  and  sister  have 
acted  under  the  inspiration  and  guidance  of  Apollo, 
the  God  of  Light,  the  purifier,  cleanser,  and  de- 
stroyer of  noxious  things.  The  rays  of  the  morn- 
ing sun  shine  upon  the  righteous  attempt,  and  the 
chorus  exults  at  the  close  that  the  descendants  of 
Atreus  have,  by  its  successful  accomplishment, 
wrought  out  their  freedom. 


NEMESIS  IN  GREEK   TRAGEDY.  IOI 

The  presence  of  a  divine  force  of  Justice  accom- 
plishing its  ends  is  everywhere  confessed,  though 
no  visible  Furies  scourge  the  offender;  and  in 
one  place  there  is  the  rare  but  curious  mention 
of  Nemesis  by  name.  The  vile  ^Egisthus,  seeing 
the  covered  dead  body  of  the  queen,  exults  over 
it,  thinking  that  it  is  Orestes  who  has  perished; 
and  he  dares  to  say  that  it  was  through  the  dis- 
pleasure of  the  gods.  But  even  his  hardened  and 
perverse  soul  is  struck  by  the  enormity  of  such  an 
assertion,  and  he  hastens  to  add,  "But  if  Nemesis 
is  listening,  I  recall  my  words."  As  if  words, 
winged  with  the  thought,  could  ever  be  recalled! 
No!  Nemesis  is  by;  Nemesis  is  listening;  Nemesis 
is  swifter  than  the  word.  The  next  moment  he 
exultingly  strips  off  the  covering,  and  knows  his 
doom. 

Throughout  all  the  dramas  of  ^Eschylus  there  is 
the  same  central  principle.  In  the  "  Seven  against 
Thebes,"  from  the  first  stormy  appeal  to  arms, 
and  the  rebuke  by  Eteocles  of  the  maiden  cho- 
rus, which  humbly  craves  the  help  of  protecting 
and  loving  Powers ;  his  throwing  to  the  winds  all 
counsels  of  prudence  and  moderation;  his  head- 
long rashness,  which  cries  out, — 

"  Since  God  so  hotly  urges  on  the  thing, 
Let  all  of  Laios'  race,  whom  Phoebus  hates, 
Drive  with  the  wind  upon  Cokytos'  wave  ;  " 

his  defiance  of  "the  fierce  and  hot  curse  of  QEdi- 
pus,"  and  of  the  gods  who  scorned  his  house  of  old, 
and  of  the  warning  not  to  hurry  to  shed  a  brother's 


102  NEMESIS  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY. 

blood, — he  rushes  onward  to  slay  and  be  slain, 
to  make  good  the  blind  father's  curse,  and  lie 
beneath  — 

"  A  boundless  wealth  of  earth." 

In  the  "  Suppliants  "  the  appeal  is  to  revere  the 
friend  of  the  suppliant,  the  guardian  of  the  suf- 
fering, stranger  guest;  to  honor  the  daughter  of 
Zeus,  — Dice,  or  apportioning  Justice,  whose  wrath 
cannot  be  appeased.  The  prayer  to  Zeus,  the 
possessor  of  blessedness,  is  to  be  free  from  vySpt?, 
or  wanton  arrogance,  that  pride  which  he  sorely 
hates.  Upon  this  excess,  destruction  always  waits. 

Of  the  "Prometheus  Bound,"  the  only  untreated 
extant  drama  by  ^Eschylus,  it  is  impossible  to  say 
what  was  the  way  in  which  the  divine  Nemesis 
was  unfolded.  It  is  but  a  fragment,  one  of  three 
acts;  and  in  this  act  Prometheus  tells  his  own 
story,  and  gives  his  own  version  of  what  he  did 
and  why  he  suffered.  He  justifies  himself,  and 
hurls  defiance  against  his  seemingly  unjustifiable 
oppressor.  But  the  sympathizing  chorus,  which 
yet  elects  to  share  his  fate,  hints  at  that  audacious 
recklessness  which  can  never  go  unpunished,  and 
sings  of  that  "  harmony  of  Zeus  "  which  can  never 
be  disturbed  by  the  vain  counsel  of  mortal  men. 
Therefore  it  is  impossible  to  believe  that  ^schylus 
meant  to  represent,  as  Shelley  says,  Prometheus 
to  be  "the  type  of  the  highest  perfection  of  moral 
and  intellectual  nature,  impelled  by  the  purest  and 
the  truest  motives  to  the  best  and  noblest  ends." 


NEMESIS  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY.  103 

All  that  we  know  of  ^Eschylus  forbids  the  supposi- 
tion that  he  left,  as  the  resultant  impression  of  the 
entire  Trilogy,  the  feeling  upon  the  minds  of  the 
spectators  that  Zeus  was  "  the  successful  and  per- 
fidious adversary"  of  man  and  of  man's  champion. 
Had  they  so  understood  the  poet,  they  would  have 
stoned  him  on  the  spot.  Such  a  view  would  have 
been  fatal  to  that  ethical  truth  embodied  in  the 
idea  of  Nemesis.  The  oppressive  tyrant  would 
then  have  gone  unscathed;  the  Head  of  the  Uni- 
verse would  have  triumphed  over  its  righteous 
laws.  No,  it  could  have  been  no  "feeble"  recon- 
ciliation which  the  poet  brought  about;  in  it  the 
sovereign  righteousness  must  have  triumphed  in 
a  way  to  satisfy  the  higher  demands  of  a  purely 
moral  consciousness.  Even  the  self-will  of  the 
mightiest  Titan  must  be  brought  into  harmony 
with  the  order  of  the  universe. 

When  ^Eschylus  began  his  career  as  a  dramatic 
poet  the  superhuman,  gigantic  figures  of  the  mytho- 
logic  age  had  not  attained  a  human  and  every-day 
form.  He  seizes  upon  a  few  simple,  grand  out- 
lines, and  with  bold,  unerring  stroke  depicts  them 
to  the  eye,  without  stopping  to  assign  motives,  to 
reconcile  inconsistencies,  to  multiply  or  explain 
details.  He  deals  with  colossal  figures,  vast 
masses  of  light  and  shade,  and  throws  the  light 
of  divine  truths  upon  man  from  the  outside  with 
a  lens  of  demonic  and  prophetic  power. 

But  Sophocles  —  and  ^Eschylus  himself  before 
his  death  —  began  to  use  a  finer  art;  to  discrimi- 


104  NEMESIS  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY. 

nate  more  nicely  as  to  motive,  impulse,  purpose,  and 
character.  This  was  in  the  natural  course  of  dra- 
matic evolution,  as  the  epic  and  the  lyric  elements 
became  fused  together  into  a  higher  synthetic 
form.  It  was  also  in  accordance  with  the  politi- 
cal and  social  development  of  Athens,  where  every- 
thing was  full  of  life,  everything  changing  and 
interworking  to  new  issues  and  fresh  solutions 
of  the  eternal  problems  of  morals  and  religion. 

In  Sophocles  the  harmonious,  serene,  all-recon- 
ciling character  of  his  poetry  was  the  natural  ex- 
pression of  the  harmonious  and  serene  character 
of  the  man.  In  his  view  no  excess,  no  morbid  con- 
test of  passions,  no  eccentric  outburst  of  moods, 
confused  the  rhythm  of  that  eternal  law  which  was 
not  outside  but  inside  the  soul  of  man.  Antigone 
can  calmly  violate  the  highest  human  authority, 
but  cannot  sin  against  the  supreme  mandate  of  her 
own  soul.  She  can  resign  every  earthly  joy,  she 
can  die:  "to  please  the  living  is  for  a  moment,  to 
please  the  dead  is  forever."  Sophocles  never  pa- 
rades the  internal  contests  of  the  soul  in  order  to 
attain  some  sensational  end ;  he  unfolds  them  only 
so  far  as  is  necessary  for  the  attainment  of  purifi- 
cation and  repose.  With  him  health  must  come 
from  elevation  into  a  purer  air;  peace,  from  the 
resolution  of  elemental  discords  into  a  central 
harmony.  The  law  in  man  punishes  pride,  re- 
strains arrogance,  discloses  guilt, — that  eternal 
law  "which  no  mortal  established,  and  which  no 
old  age  can  impair."  The  Furies  themselves  are 


JVEMESIS  IN  CREEK  TRAGEDY.  105 

lulled  to  sleep  by  his  song.  Like  ^Eschylus,  he 
was  penetrated  through  and  through  with  the 
sacred  character  of  his  work;  so  that  Landor  is 
right  when  he  makes  him  say  of  himself :  "  I  am 
only  the  interpreter  of  the  heroes  and  divinities 
who  are  looking  down  upon  me." 

Nothing  can  be  more  misleading  than  the  at- 
tempt to  make  characterization  a  prominent  fea- 
ture of  the  Greek  drama,  as  it  is  undoubtedly  of 
Shakspeare's  plays.  In  ^Eschylus  and  Sophocles 
there  is  no  depicting  of  various  and  manifold  traits 
with  delicate  and  subtile  shadings  of  motive,  im- 
pulse, and  tendency.  The  individualities  are  strong 
and  pure;  but  they  are  not  real  flesh  and  blood, 
changing  with  the  changing  breeze  and  tinged  with 
varying  hues,  as  the  fresh  life-current,  welling  up 
from  the  heart,  retards  or  quickens  the  pulse  and 
sends  a  passing  cloud  or  sunlight  over  the  coun- 
tenance. They  are  not  forms  subject  to  every 
skyey  influence,  whose  real  feelings,  moods,  and 
purposes  are  subjects  to  speculate  about,  like 
those  of  any  actual,  living  person  whose  character 
assumes  a  different  aspect  according  to  the  differ- 
ent point  of  view.  The  personages  are  plastic 
forms,  expressing  a  few  definite,  well-defined  quali- 
ties simply  and  directly,  in  accordance  with  the 
simplicity  and  directness  of  the  time.  Schiller 
said:  "It  seems  to  me  that  the  characters  of 
Greek  tragedy  are  more  or  less  ideal  masks,  and 
not  individual  persons."  But  their  real  nature 
is  more  clearly  designated  by  Hegel,  who  says: 


106  NEMESIS  IN  CREEK  TRAGEDY. 

"  The  personages  are  neither  what  we  in  the  mod- 
ern sense  term  characters,  nor  are  they  pure 
abstractions;  but  they  stand  between  these  two 
extremes, —  firm  figures,  which  are  just  what  they 
are,  and  nothing  else,  without  any  internal  colli- 
sion, and  without  any  mingling  of  conflicting  ele- 
ments ;  absolutely  determined  characters  based  upon 
some  definite  and  simple  moral  state."  That  is, 
there  is  individual  character,  but  all  forces  are 
excluded  except  those  which  work  in  a  straight 
line;  and  therefore  no  higher  calculus  is  needed 
to  determine  the  direction  and  movement  of  the 
impinging  objects.  There  are  no  infinite  grada- 
tions of  guilt  and  mental  suffering,  of  waverings 
and  conflicts  of  purpose,  of  infirmities  of  resolve, 
of  gradual  hardening  of  conscience  and  obscuration 
of  the  inner  light.  Our  interest  is  not  that  of  an 
overpowering  personal  sympathy,  our  judgment  not 
distracted  by  various  and  complex  views  of  life  and 
conduct.  In  the  modern  drama  there  is  the  free 
play  of  individual  states,  feelings,  idiosyncrasies 
of  mood  and  temperament,  personal  traits  and  com- 
plex situations,  with  new  combinations  springing 
from  the  action  and  reaction  of  colliding  views  of 
life  and  duty.  The  ancient  heroes  and  heroines 
go  straight  to  the  goal,  and  are  but  little  affected 
by  the  currents  and  counter-currents  proceeding 
from  varying  humors  and  interjected  side-inter- 
ests of  a  large  number  of  dramatic  personages. 

Now,  it  is  because  of  this  varied  and  complex 
nature  of  Shakspeare's  dramas,  because  he  works 


NEMES/S  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY.  IO/ 

out  his  results  from  so  many  different  foci,  be- 
cause he  never  expresses  in  didactic  form  the 
great  moral  lessons  at  the  heart  of  his  mimic  rep- 
resentation,—  it  is  because  of  these  things  that  the 
reality  of  a  conception  of  retributive  justice  as  a 
central  idea  is  denied  to  his  tragedy.  Even  J.  A. 
Symonds  makes  this  assertion.  But  he  accounts 
for  it  by  assigning  as  a  reason  the  "  continued  treat- 
ment of  one  class  of  subjects, —  namely,  the  mytho- 
logical, which  remarkably  exhibited  the  working  of 
a  retributive  justice."  Yet  how  can  this  be,  when, 
with  this  "continued  treatment"  the  idea  almost 
disappears  from  Greek  tragedy,  and  is  to  be  found 
most  vividly  presented  in  ^Eschylus  himself,  the 
earliest  of  the  tragic  poets?  In  Euripides,  the  last 
of  the  mighty  three,  the  idea  has  almost  faded  out, 
and  passionate  caprice,  intense  subjective  tenden- 
cies, dominate  the  entire  treatment  of  the  material. 
In  his  presentation  of  the  well-worn,  threadbare 
subjects  there  is  the  romantic  abandonment  to 
impulse  and  wayward  feeling,  keen  psychological 
analysis,  eloquent  dissertation,  and  beautiful  simple 
narration ;  but  there  is  no  sureness  of  eternal  vision 
and  no  instinctive  fidelity  to  those  spiritual  laws 
which  made  the  very  warp  and  woof  of  the  being  of 
^Eschylus,  as  they  did  of  the  ancestral  myths.  No! 
it  was  the  genius  of  ^Eschylus  that  sculptured  out 
of  this  marble  quarry  those  forms  of  transcendent 
justice,  and  gave  to  the  popular  consciousness 
those  awful  gods  who,  "not  of  to-day  or  yester- 
day," have  ruled  the  world. 


V. 


THE   POPE   IN   "THE   RING  AND 
THE  BOOK." 

THE  old  Pope,  trembling  on  the  verge  of  the  grave, 
has  waded  through  all  the  dreary  documents  on  that 
dreary  winter's  day.  Some  of  them  are  dreary 
enough,  even  after  they  have  been  shaped  into  what 
the  poet  fancies  is  a  ring ;  but  what  must  they  have 
been  in  the  rough?  Innocent  XII.  has  read  them 
all  through;  and  what  next?  He  will  look  to  the 
history  of  his  predecessors,  so  that  he  may  take 
instruction  from  them,  and  haply  get  some  prece- 
dent in  the  case.  The  Persian  king,  Artaxerxes  or 
Ahasuerus,  made  search  in  the  book  of  records  of 
his  fathers,  and  finding  evidence  enough  of  the  re- 
bellious spirit  of  Jerusalem,  decreed  that  a  stop 
should  be  put  to  the  rebuilding  of  its  walls.  So 
the  Pope  would  find  in  the  history  of  his  predeces- 
sors some  light  to  guide  him  in  the  decision  he  was 
to  make  as  the  last  court  of  appeal,  whether  Guido 
Franceschini  and  his  accomplices  should  be  snatched 
from  death. 

In  searching  thus  to  see  what  God  had  gained 
or  lost  by  having  a  vicar  or  representative  in  the 
world,  the  good  Pope  comes  across  a  curious  pre- 
cedent, not  very  well  adapted  to  make  him  confi- 


THE  POPE  IN  "  THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK."   1 09 

dent  in  his  own  judgment,  or  secure  in  his  own 
infallibility  as  Pope,  and  voice  of  the  unchange- 
ble  One.  He  finds  a  ghastly  decree  against  Pope 
Formosus  after  he  was  dead  and  buried ;  then  dug 
up  and  seated  in  Saint  Peter's  chair;  then  con- 
demned, and  the  corpse  cast  into  the  Tiber;  then 
next  year  the  sentence  reversed,  and  the  Pope  re- 
poped,  and  his  condemner  pronounced  accursed; 
then  this  judgment  condemned,  and  Formosus 
again  cast  out;  then,  lastly,  the  final  sentence 
given,  Formosus  decreed  a  holy  man,  and  all  his 
dignities  restored.  Which  of  all  these  was  the  in- 
fallible decree?  In  which  did  God  speak?  Truly, 
a  puzzling  conundrum  to  the  anxious  seeker  after 
historical  precedent. 

But  the  Pope  gets  what  is  better  than  any  literal 
example  or  direct  precept:  he  gets  inspiration, 
courage,  light.  He  sees  that  the  old  Formosus 
condemned,  absolved,  condemned  and  absolved 
again,  was  no  wise  affected  in  reality  by  all  the 
varied  processes  of  embalming,  dislocation,  de- 
vouring by  fishes,  miraculous  restorations,  and 
final  reinstatement  as  a  corpse  in  good  standing, 
as  a  Pope  of  immaculate  fame.  Not  all  these  con- 
demnations could  touch  the  soul  of  the  man. 
Courage,  then,  and  stand  by  thy  soul,  now  when 
thine  own  turn  has  come  to  give  judgment!  Now, 
he,  Pope  Innocent,  is  to  speak  in  God's  name;  to 
speak  the  word  which  is  to  push  "a  poor,  weak, 
trembling,  human  wretch  "  over  the  edge  into  "  the 
awful  dark,"  or  to  hold  out  the  hand  and  draw  him 


IIO  THE  POPE  IN 

back.  It  is  winter  outside :  it  is  yet  more  sombre 
winter  in  the  Pope's  soul,  as  the  darkness  of  even- 
ing shuts  from  sight  the  dismal  documents.  But 
his  course  is  clear;  his  mind  is  made  up;  he  has 
no  irresolution.  Yet  he  pauses  before  he  rings 
the  hand-bell  and  makes  known  his  irrevocable 
sentence.  Why?  Because  he  may  be  fallible  in 
his  judgment?  Or  does  he  fall  back  upon  his 
infallibility  as  God's  vicegerent,  as  sitting  in 
Christ's  seat?  Never  this  plea  from  first  to  last. 
He  is  a  man,  and  as  a  man  may  possibly  err. 
But  if  he  err,  it  is  in  ignorance;  and  that  is  "his 
sorrow,  not  his  sin." 

No  morbidness  of  conscience  is  in  the  sound- 
hearted  old  man,  though  he  is  an  ecclesiastic;  he 
makes  strenuous  use  of  all  the  faculty  God  has 
given  him,  and  not  God  himself  can  ask  more. 
God  judges  by  the  intent  and  not  by  the  out- 
ward act;  God  knows  the  integrity  of  his  heart, 
and  therefore  he  has  no  fear  at  all.  It  may  be  the 
last  act  of  his  trembling  eighty-six  years;  but  in 
that  last  act  will  be  tasted  the  true  product  of  his 
heart  and  soul.  The  method  of  judgment  taken, 
the  tribunal  appealed  to  by  this  soul  laden  with 
"  the  cark  and  care "  of  the  whole  world  is  the 
pivotal  thing  so  far  as  the  Pope  is  concerned.  It 
is,  in  fact,  a  practical  commentary  on  these  words 
of  Emerson :  — 

"  Whoever  looks  with  heed  into  his  thoughts  will  find 
there  is  somebody  within  him  that  knows  more  than  he 
does, —  a  simple  wisdom  behind  all  acquired  wisdom ;  some- 


"  THE  KING  AND    THE  BOO  A."  1 1  I 

thing  not  educated  or  educable,  not  altered  or  alterable  ; 
a  mother-wit,  which  does  not  learn  by  experience  or  by 
books,  but  knew  it  all  already  ;  makes  no  progress,  but  was 
wise  in  youth  as  in  ag?.  More  or  less  clouded,  it  yet  re- 
sides the  same  in  all,  —  saying  ay,  ay  !  or  no,  no  !  to  every 
proposition.  Its  justice  is  perfect ;  its  look  is  catholic 
and  universal,  its  light  ubiquitous  like  the  sun." 

Now,  who  is  this  somebody  within  him  that 
knows  more  than  the  aged  Pope  with  all  his  apos- 
tolic functions,  more  than  the  vicar  of  Christ  with 
all  his  outpoured  spiritual  illumination?  It  is  to 
his  "ancient  self,"  plain  Antonio  Pignatelli,  as 
was  his  name  before  he  was  Pope,  that  he  will 
state  the  reasons  why  he  finds  Guido  reprobate, 
and  not  to  be  saved  from  the  clutches  of  the  law : 

"  Wherefore,  Antonio  Pignatelli,  thou, 
Mine  ancient  self,  who  wast  no  Pope  so  long, 
But  studied  God  and  man  the  many  years 
I'  the  school,  i'  the  cloister,  in  the  diocese 
Domestic,  legate-rule  in  foreign  lands,  — 
Thou  other  force  in  those  old  busy  days 
Than  this  gray  ultimate  decrepitude, — 

Thou,  not  Pope,  but  the  mere  old  man  o'  the  world, 

Supposed  inquisitive  and  dispassionate,  — 

Wilt  thou,  the  one  whose  speech  I  somewhat  trust, 

Question  the  after-me,  this  self  now  Pope, 

Hear  his  procedure,  criticise  his  work  ?  " 

Here,  verily,  is  the  appeal  from  Philip  drunk  to 
Philip  sober;  from  representative  Pope  to  the 
manly  self  before  Pope  was  thought  of!  With 


112  THE  POPE  IN 

this  electric  light  steadily  burning,  far-flashing 
its  beams  into  every  dark  corner,  every  foggy 
nook,  every  cobwebbed  hole,  he  brings  out  trick- 
ster and  vermin,  wolf  and  fox,  forger  and  coward, 
fool  and  murderer,  —  all  in  one.  So  also  is  re- 
vealed that  choice  flower  of  earth,  that  blossom 
"gathered  for  the  breast  of  God":  — 

"  See  how  this  mere  chance-sown,  cleft-nursed  seed, 
That  sprang  up  by  the  wayside,  'neath  the  foot 
Of  the  enemy,  —  this  breaks  all  into  blaze, 
Spreads  itself,  one  wide  glory  of  desire 
To  incorporate  the  whole  great  sun  it  loves, 
From  the  inch-height  whence  it  looks  and  longs." 

Then  what  a  humanly  smile  sweeps  across  the 
rigid  papal  mask,  as  the  good  soul  calls  up  the 
vision  of  the  masquerading  Caponsacchi,  stripped 
of  all  his  conventional  priestly  clothing,  and  leap- 
ing at  the  first  call  into  the  arena  to  fight  for  God ! 
What  clear  insight,  on  this  basis  of  a  purely  human 
touch,  in  separating  the  apparent  from  the  real,  the 
surface  from  the  substance!  Yet  at  last  comes 
the  doubt  whether  this  light  may  not  be  from  a 
coal  blown  bright  by  his  own  breath,  and  not  be  at 
all  the  light  of  the  upper  sky!  Instead  of  a  celes- 
tial star  there  may  be  only  a  burning  coal ! 

A  quick,  cold  thrill  creeps  over  him,  and  his 
tense  nerve  slackens  at  the  doubt.  Why  not  face 
it,  and  look  for  that  higher  light  from  which  his 
own  little  spark  of  intelligence  is  drawn?  How- 
ever little,  this  mind  of  man  is  in  its  degree  the 
representative,  "though  but  an  atom-width,"  of 


"THE  RING  AND    THE  BOOK."  113 

the  measureless  intelligence.  However  small  this 
earth,  it  became  among  all  the  peopled  stars  the 
stage  for  that  transcendent  act  of  self-sacrificing 
love,  which  makes  the  seeming  deficiency  of  good- 
ness in  the  work  of  God  equal  to  the  manifest 
intelligence  and  strength.  He  believes  in  this 
divine  story  of  unlimited  self-sacrifice,  and  finds 
nothing  lacking  of  " perfection  fit  for  God."  All 
the  pain  of  life  is  meant  to  bring  out  the  moral 
qualities  of  man,  to  make  him  loving  and  pure, 
and  to  form  the  moral  sense  which  grows  by  ex- 
ercise. Man  is  to  make  a  fairer  world  than  he 
finds  here;  and  so  Pompilia  is  not  lost,  and  Guido 
may  be  saved  in  that  large  life  which  awaits  those 
who  pass  out  of  this  small  world.  This  earth  is 
but  the  starting-point,  not  the  goal. 

But  this  thought  terrifies  him,  that  those  who 
profess  to  know  the  worth  of  the  priceless  pearl 
dredge  only  for  whelks  and  mud-worms, —  as  the 
archbishop,  the  bare-foot  monk,  the  Convertites, 
the  women  meant  to  help  women,  who  yet  for 
a  little  expected  inheritance  slander  the  sainted 
mother  and  would  rob  her  child.  Is  this  the  out- 
come of  "  seventeen  hundred  years  since  God  died 
for  man  "  ? 

Then,  further,  it  forces  itself  upon  him  that 
love  and  faith  leap  forth  to-day,  not  under  the 
authority  of  the  Church,  but  at  the  call  of  purely 
human  instinct.  The  Christians, —  into  what  cor- 
ners have  they  slunk?  But  the  light  will  still 
burn.  The  clouds  are  sun-suffused,  their  soft 

8 


U4  THE  POPE  IN 

streaks  are  beautiful ;  and  that  which  seems  weak- 
ness is  but  the  incentive  to  humanity ;  so  that  the 
divine  act  of  self-sacrifice,  never  ending,  always 
begins  for  man.  Then  all  is  light. 

"  So  does  the  sun  ghastlily  seem  to  sink 
In  those  north  parts,  lean  all  but  out  of  life, 
Desist  a  dread  mere  breathing-stop  ;  then  slow 
Reassert  day,  begin  the  endless  rise." 

The  old  Christian  heroism,  he  thinks,  is  impos- 
sible, perhaps,  because  there  is  such  an  ignoble 
confidence  and  cowardly  assurance  in  the  truth  as 
being  already  won. 

But  what  vision  rises  before  him  ?  He  sees  the 
dawning  of  that  terrible  eighteenth  century,  whose 
mission  it  is  to  shake  all  the  pillars  of  assured 
faith,  to  shake  that  belief  in  the  report  which  has 
been  substituted  for  belief  in  the  thing  that  was 
reported,  and  to  correct  the  old  portrait,  "the 
man's  God  by  the  God's  God  in  the  mind  of 
man."  Ah,  what  a  morris-dance  for  the  selfish- 
ness, the  greed,  the  passions  of  men! 

But  he  will  smite  with  all  his  strength,  in  spite 
of  the  pleas  to  a  sense  of  honor  and  an  educated 
taste;  to  privilege  of  the  clergy  and  interests  of 
the  Church;  to  claims  of  culture  and  civilization; 
to  the  necessity  of  the  husband's  supremacy  over 
the  wife;  to  the  appeal  for  him  to  spare  his  own 
closing  life  this  bloody  setting,  and  to  spare  the 
Church  from  incoming  Luthers,  Calvins,  and  Mo- 
linos;  to  win  the  benedictions  of  the  city.  In 
spite  of  all,  he  gives  the  order  for  the  execution 


"THE  RING  AND    THE  BOOK."  11$ 

of  the  criminals  in  the  most  public  place, — the 
People's  Square.  The  very  suddenness  of  the  fate 
may  save  the  murderer's  soul;  for,  he  says, — 

"  I  stood  at  Naples  once,  a  night  so  dark 
I  could  have  scarce  conjectured  there  was  earth 
Anywhere,  sky  or  sea,  or  world  at  all : 
But  the  night's  black  was  burst  through  by  a  blaze  ; 
Thunder  struck  blow  on  blow,  earth  groaned  and  bore 
Through  her  whole  length  of  mountain  visible. 
There  lay  the  city  thick  and  plain  with  spires, 
And,  like  a  ghost  disshrouded,  white  the  sea. 
So  may  the  truth  be  flashed  out  by  one  blow, 
And  Guido  see,  one  instant,  and  be  saved." 

Wonderful  Pope !  whose  natural  force  and  whose 
true  instinct  the  Augustinian  monk,  in  his  sermon, 
may  well  call  a  miracle.  It  would  be  indeed  a 
miracle  to  have  such  a  Pope ;  for  it  would  put  the 
good  Innocent  of  the  seventeenth  century  in  the 
poetic  chair  of  the  stalwart  leader  of  the  spiritual 
thought  of  the  nineteenth  century.  No  Pope  that 
ever  yet  gave  the  papal  benediction  would  thus 
have  threaded  the  maze  of  theological  vaticination. 
No  twelfth  Innocent  has  here  contributed  his  quota 
to  that  golden  ring,  though  to  say  so  is  to  deny 
the  claim  of  dramatic  transposition.  But  it  is  the 
genuine  Robert  Browning  who  has  sat  on  the  papal 
throne,  and  laid  down  a  precedent  which,  I  am 
afraid,  the  infallible  successor  of  Saint  Peter  will 
be  very  sure  not  to  follow. 


VI. 

BROWNING'S   "IN   A   BALCONY." 

"  Now !  "  "  Not  now ! "  So  ring  in  staccato  tones 
the  plea  and  its  denial.  The  man  aspires  "to  live 
in  harmony  with  truth ;  "  the  woman  fears  that  the 
open  truth  will  be  their  ruin.  Why  cannot  the 
present  life  of  stolen  interviews,  of  secret  confi- 
dences, which  neither  queen  nor  court  suspects,  be 
continued?  The  woman  —  politic,  afraid  of  meet- 
ing the  direct  consequences  of  open  avowal  —  be- 
comes the  adroit  casuist,  the  convincing  pleader 
for  indirection,  and  for  averting  the  manly  avowal 
of  their  mutual  love.  The  forecasting  prudence 
offers  a  compromise,  and  that  compromise  is 
reluctantly  assented  to  by  the  lover. 

Evidently  we  have  here  an  utterance  different 
from  that  which  came  from  another  moon-lit  bal- 
cony, where  the  loving  heart  expresses  itself  in  the 
words, — 

"  And  all  my  fortunes  at  thy  feet  I  '11  lay,- 
And  follow  thee,  my  lord,  throughout  the  world." 

Yet  here,  too,  in  this  dramatic  sketch  by  the 
great  poet,  we  do  have  a  love-tragedy,  —  tragedy 
in  every  sense.  A  tragedy  is  something  more  than 


BRO  WNING  'S  ••  IN  A  BALCONY."  1 1 7 

a  fatal  result,  a  death,  an  inevitable  stroke  from 
the  outside.  Death  comes  to  all,  but  we  do  not 
therefore  call  it  a  tragedy,  whether  accidental  or 
necessary.  Disappointment,  thwarting  of  highest 
purpose,  wreck  upon  som'e  lee-shore,  may  be  tragic 
enough;  but  the  simple  happening  of  these  events, 
though  accompanied  by  untold  sufferings  and  an- 
guish, does  not  of  itself  constitute  a  tragedy  in  the 
true  sense  of  the  word.  In  a  tragedy  the  real  ele- 
ment of  pathos  and  terror  is  from  within  and  not 
from  without :  it  is  the  collision  which  comes 
from  moral  opposites,  from  irreconcilable  ideals, 
from  conflicting  forces  inside  the  soul,  from  the 
destroying  tempest  rushing  by  inevitable  laws  out 
of  that  quarter  which  had  been  looked  to  as  the 
very  source  of  peaceful  serenity.  As  the  end  of 
all  their  joyous  ecstasy  of  love,  their  hopeful 
schemes,  their  plausible  plans  for  outwitting  the 
conventional  pressure  all  around  them,  Romeo  and 
Juliet  find  the  world  in  which  they  are  to  dwell  as 
small  as  the  boundaries  of  "one  little  grave."  The 
headlong  rush  of  a  love  irrespective  of  time  and 
sense  and  earthly  limitations,  bore  within  itself 
the  very  causes  that  bring  about  the  fatal  end. 

In  the  fragment  before  us,  the  collision  comes 
from  the  opposite  poles  of  that  electric  current 
which  streams  through  all  the  parallel  and  cross- 
ing wires  of  the  human  soul  and  human  life. 

"  T  is  dangerous  when  the  baser  nature  comes 
Between  the  pass  and  foil  incensed  points 
Of  mighty  opposites." 


Il8  BROWNING'S  "IN  A   BALCONY." 

Love  would  have  its  own,  but  would  have  it  in  a 
circuitous  way, — stretching  a  new  wire,  crossing 
and  interlacing  the  network  of  wires  that  already 
existed  in  the  actual  life.  The  man  saw  clearly 
enough  the  right  thing  to  be  done,  when  he 
says, — 

"  Truth  is  the  strong  thing.     Let  man's  life  be  true  ! 

And  love 's  the  truth  of  mine  :  time  prove  the  rest." 

\ 

In  the  light  and  warmth  of  this  love  he  would  live 
and  work,  no  longer  hiding  in  corners  and  steal- 
ing caresses  in  the  dark,  but  living  a  manly,  open, 
blessed'life,  in  which  all  should  see,  and  all  give 
due  acknowledgment  of,  the  source  from  which 
that  life  was  supplied:  — 

"  I  choose  to  have/0#  stamped  all  over  me,  — 
Your  name  upon  my  forehead  and  my  breast,  — 
You,  from  the  sword's  blade  to  the  ribbon's  edge, 
That  men  may  see,  all  over,  you  in  me ; 
That  pale  loves  may  die  out  of  their  pretence 
In  face  of  mine ;  shames  thrown  on  love  fall  off. 
Permit  this,  Constance  !  " 

Does  she  permit  it?  No;  she  even  misinterprets 
his  noble  longing;  she  thinks  he  is  fretting  be- 
cause she  is  not  yet  wholly  his  own ;  he  is  "  stum- 
bling at  a  straw,"  when  he  will  risk  all  to  gain 
the  world's  cognizance, — 

"  How  he  loves  her,  and  how  she  worships  him." 

Thus  she  would  have  Norbert  play  a  false  part, — 
"not  very  false,  as  courtiers  go,"  but  still  false, — 
and  tell  the  queen,  whose  tenderness  seemed  all 


BROWNING'S  "IN  A   BALCONY."  \\g 

starved  out,  that  he  had  done  the  great  services 
he  had  rendered  out  of  devotion  to  her;  and  to  ask 
for  the  hand  of  her  cousin  as  being  the  nearest 
thing  to  her,  —  a  ribbon  valued  because  she  had 
worn  and  breathed  upon  it;  and  Norbert  re- 
presses his  own  convictions  of  what  is  highest 
and  best,  adopts  the  policy  of  flattery  and  white 
lies,  and  so  uncoils  the  wire  which  will  convey 
safely  the  intensified  electric  current  if  the  wire 
remain  unbroken  and  come  in  contact  with  no 
other  conductor. 

That  tragic  if!  The  wire  does  fall  upon  some 
other  crossing  wires,  and  they  who  have  grasped 
it  in  their  hands  writhe  disfigured  and  lifeless 
under  its  touch.  This  queen,  whose  tenderness 
Constance  thought  was  all  starved  out;  this  cold, 
marble-encased  soul ;  this  proud  thing  of  state  and 
ceremony,  who  will  be  content  with  the  mere  name 
and  echo  of  love, —  is  not  so  cold  and  shadowy  after 
all.  And  nowhere  is  the  Sophoclean  tragic  irony 
better  exhibited  than  in  the  case  of  Constance  in 
the  Second  Part.  She  stands  there  waiting  for 
her  lover  to  return,  —  her  lover,  who  had  adopted 
her  way,  who  had  given  up  his  own  chosen  plan, 
and  become  in  everything  subject  to  her  as  he  had 
been  to  the  queen ;  and  instead  of  him  the  queen 
herself, —  the  supposed  stately,  icy,  buckram  shadow 
of  a  withered  and  deformed  existence, — bursts  in 
with  every  nerve  trembling,  every  organ  and  mus- 
cle alive,  her  eyes  flashing,  her  tongue  quivering 
with  the  confession  of  her  own  love,  the  fulness 


120  BROWNING'S  "IN  A   BALCONY." 

of  her  own  rejoicing  in  the  unhoped-for  issue! 
The  almost  paralyzed  maiden  hears  the  queen's 
exulting  proclamation  that  she  will  brush  away 
all  obstacles,  retrieve  her  calamitous  youth,  and 
become  the  wife  of  the  young  hero  of  her  dearest 
dreams.  The  poor  girl  drains  the  cup  to  its  dregs. 
She  had  counselled  that  Norbert  should  speak  of 
her  as  but  the  reflex  of  the  queen,  and  is  taken  at 
her  word.  "I'll  come  to  you  for  counsel,"  says 
the  queen. 

"  This  he  says, 

This  he  does ;  what  should  this  amount  to,  pray  ? 
Beseech  you,  change  it  into  current  coin. 
Is  that  worth  kisses?     Shall  I  please  him  there?  " 

Furthermore,  Constance  is  to  be  permitted  to 
choose  some  one  whom  she  may  love  and  marry. 
It  is,  indeed,  an  unlooked-for  catastrophe,  a  sudden 
overcasting  of  the  smiling  sky. 

Perhaps  a  yet  more  effective  instance  of  dra- 
matic irony  is  that  presented  in  the  Third  Part, 
when  the  queen,  in  the  very  noon  and  flood-tide 
of  her  ecstatic  joyfulness,  is  overwhelmed  by  the 
calamity  that  no  courage  can  overcome  and  no 
consolation  can  cheer.  She  had  gone  out,  feeling 
that  she  lived  in  a  changed  world  which  God's 
smile  had  blessed,  where  everything  was  made  for 
happiness,  and  the  love-lit  future  was  all  before 
her  in  which  to  redeem  the  past.  She  had  had 
dreams  of  bliss;  but  this  was  as  different  — 

"  As  these  stone  statues  from  the  flesh  and  blood." 


BRO  WNING  'S  "  IN  A   BA  L  CONY."  1 2 1 

Her  last  word  as  she  looked  at  "  the  blessed  moon  " 
of  Romeo,  "the  inconstant  moon"  of  Juliet,  was, 

"  The  comfort  thou  hast  caused  mankind,  God's  moon  ! " 

Now,   however,   she   returns  to  find  the  lovers  in 
each  other's  arms. 

But  the  resolute,  self-composed  Constance  is  not 
wholly  thrown  off  her  balance ;  what  the  queen  has 
seen  is  all  nothing  but  the  performance  of  a  part 
as  her  reflex,  her  helper  to  love,  and  on  Norbert's 
part  a  fitting  exercise  of  his  gratitude  to  the  queen. 
She  is  thus  self-possessed  and  strong,  because  the 
highest  motive  has  now  gained  full  possession  of 
her  soul.  If  human  acting  can  accomplish  it,  all 
these  cross  purposes  shall  work  to  bring  about  the 
queen's  desired  ends.  Constance  will  sacrifice 
herself;  and  she  explains  the  sudden  starting  away 
of  Norbert  as  a  rude  repulse,  as  if  he  said,  "  There, 
now,  I  've  had  enough  of  you! "  The  kiss  was  but 
the  thanks  given  to  the  tool  he  had  employed,  and 
now  threw  away,  —  "a  first,  as  well  as  what  was 
to  be  the  last,  kiss."  Turning  to  the  queen,  she 
bids  her  take  him  with  her  own  full  consent.  Nor- 
bert, looking  upon  it  as  a  poorly  played  jest,  asks 
the  queen  to  give  him  his  reward, —  meaning  the 
hand  of  Constance.  The  poor  queen,  still  in  the 
meshes  of  her  delusive  dream,  confesses  all  her 
love,  and  offers  herself  to  Norbert.  He  cannot 
understand  what  seems  only  a  horrible  jest,  and 
throws  himself  at  the  feet  of  Constance,  saying, — 


122  BROWNING'S  "IN  A   BALCONY." 

"  Now  you  know 

That  body  and  soul  have  each  one  life,  but  one : 
And  here  's  my  love,  here,  living  at  your  feet." 

The  queen  is  silent,  but  we  see  her  there  grasp- 
ing fiercely  the  balcony,  "glaring  with  panther's 
eyes "  at  Constance,  who  in  her  turn  succumbs 
and  glares  back  again.  Now  Norbert  understands, 
and  says :  — 

"  Was  it  your  love's  mad  trial  to  o'ertop 
Mine  by  this  vain  self-sacrifice  ?     Well,  still 
Though  I  should  curse,  I  love  you.     I  am  love, 
And  cannot  change  !     Love's  self  is  at  your  feet ! " 

The  queen  retires,  as  well  she  may.  The  lovers 
now  find  each  other  out,  and  in  the  joyfulness  of 
perfect  trust  await  the  coming  of  the  guard  to 
stamp  upon  their  love  the  black  seal  of  death. 

At  last  the  swan-song  of  love,  here  as  it  is  not 
always,  is, — 

"  And  all  my  fortunes  at  thy  feet  I  '11  lay, 
And  follow  thee,  my  lord,  throughout  eternity.  " 

Or,  as  Constance  expresses  it,  we  are  here  "on 
the  breast  of  God." 

But  the  Philistine  asks  for  the  moral  of  it  all. 
Well,  he  may  surely  see  that  to  bring  about  exter- 
nal success  it  is  not  best  always  to  go  cunningly 
to  work,  inasmuch  as  truth  is  the  sure  thing,  the 
strong  thing,  in  this  universe  of  God.  Constance 
was  false  to  love;  for  she  could  imagine,  one  mo- 
ment at  least,  her  lover  to  be  so  base  as  to  give  his 


BROWNING'S  "IN  A   BALCONY?  123 

hand  for  a  crown,  and  barter  her  away  for  any  liv- 
ing thing.  Norbert  was  false  to  his  own  clearly- 
seen,  noblest  ideal  of  manliness  and  truth;  and 
between  "the  fell,  incensed  points  of  mighty  op- 
posites  "  both  must  be  consumed.  Constance  has 
brought  about  the  very  ruin  which  she  feared  her 
lover  would  effect  by  his  straightforward  "  now. " 

But  is  this  the  final  result?  Is  this  all  that 
comes  of  their  struggle  in  the  flesh,  their  human 
contact,  and  their  mutual  aspiration? 

No,  this  is  not  all  by  any  means.  The  ruin  is 
but  the  tearing  down  of  the  scaffolding,  to  show  the 
perfect  proportions  of  the  building  within.  What 
matter  now,  as  the  unsightly  structure  falls,  how 
much  labor  was  spent  in  gathering  together  its 
beams  and  planks,  in  nailing  fast  its  floors  and 
stagings  ?  Down  it  all  goes ;  for  the  building  itself 
is  completed,  and  must  greet  the  eyes  of  all.  The 
image  used  by  our  poet  is  that  of  the  labyrinth: 
why  take  account  of  the  meanders,  if  the  centre 
has  been  reached?  "The  deep  plots"  have  all 
failed  to  accomplish  a  certain  external  result ;  but 
the  want  of  wisdom  which  Constance  thought  was 
the  perfection  of  far-sightedness,  and  the  "rash- 
ness "  of  Norbert,  which  she  would  guard  against 
as  ruin  to  their  loves,  have  "served  them  well." 
The  "not  now"  of  the  one  and  the  "now"  of  the 
other  have  become  resolved  into  a  higher  unity 
than  either  had  dreamed  of.  They  are  "past 
harm  "  now,  for  they  have  attained  that  which  per- 
haps could  not  have  been  attained  in  any  other 


124  BROWNING'S  "IN  A   BALCONY." 

way.  She  is  now  his;  and  that  she  never  was 
before.  His  love  will  never  now  decline  into  the 
commonplace  and  vulgar  life  of  "their  five  hun- 
dred friends;"  for  now  they  are  melted  together 
in  the  divine  heat  of  a  furnace  more  than  seven 
times  heated,  and  without  and  within  and  around 
"it  is  one  blaze,"  which  no  time  and  no  human 
chance  can  ever  put  out.  You  may  call  it  ruin; 
but  it  is  only  the  ruin  of  the  scaffolding,  without 
which  the  temple  could  not  have  been  built.  You 
may  call  it  shipwreck;  but  the  bark  sinks  only 
"to  float  on  another  sea." 

If  we  take  Constance  herself  as  the  central  fig- 
ure, and  name  the  entire  action  from  her  position 
in  its  course  of  development,  we  should  say,  — 

Part  I.    The  false  move  in  advance. 

Part  II.  The  surprise  and  almost  total  rout  of 
the  advancing  forces. 

Part  III.  The  calling  up  of  the  reserves,  and 
victory  along  the  whole  line. 

What  the  poet  intended  in  the  sketch  we  know 
not,  and,  alas!  can  never  know.  He  has  passed 
beyond  our  mortal  sight,  and  no  one  can  vex  his 
ghost  to  ask  what  he  meant,  what  vision  of  human 
faculty  and  human  destiny  he  saw  in  the  creations 
of  his  poetic  power.  To  him,  no  doubt,  there  was 
a  determined  reality,  though  to  us  there  may  seem 
something  strained  beyond  the  limits  of  every-day 
life  and  common  experience.  To  him  it  was  the 
portrayal  of  a  soul-crisis,  an  acting  out  of  supposed 
destinies,  —  which,  granting  his  analysis,  and  look- 


BROWNING'S  "IN  A   BALCONY." 


125 


ing  through  his  telescopic  lens,  appear  to  be  the 
onward  tramp  of  forces  that  no  human  power  can 
resist.  As  the  unfolding  of  such  a  special  situa- 
tion, not  as  a  transcript  of  our  every-day  human 
life,  there  is  wonderful  strength  in  almost  every 
line. 

More  real  dramatic  reproductiveness  of  emotion 
and  passion  are  here  unfolded  than  in  any  of  the 
complete  dramas.  The  dialogue  is  more  inter- 
woven as  cause  and  effect,  as  an  immediate  re- 
sponse to  the  thought,  and  as  a  revelation  not 
merely  of  what  is  thought  at  the  moment,  but  of 
what  has  been  occupying  the  mind.  The  thought 
is  not  stated  as  a  categorical  answer  to  questions 
that  are  put  and  to  speeches  that  are  made;  but 
it  takes  on  a  more  dramatic  life  than  is  found  in 
most  of  the  literary  dramas,  full  as  they  are  of 
thoughtful  study  to  readers  by  themselves.  He 
called  himself  "  Robert  Browning,  writer  of  plays ;  " 
but  if  that  were  all,  he  would  not  attain  his  right 
place  and  his  full  power  in  the  present  and  the 
coming  generations.  Rather  do  we  say,  "  Robert 
Browning,  who  expressed  himself  in  every  line 
that  he  wrote,  whether  lyric  poem  or  dramatic 
utterance;  who  saw  under  some  poetic  form  the 
mysteries  that  encompass  our  souls,  and  make  us 
bow  down  in  reverence  and  in  awe." 


VII. 

THE  GREEK  COMEDY  OF  MANNERS. 

GREEK  Comedy,  as  represented  by  Aristophanes, 
was  the  unique  production  of  democratic  Athens. 
It  was  an  unbridled  caricature  of  public  and  even 
private  life, —  an  acted  representation,  in  fact,  of 
the  burlesque  and  satirical  plates  of  "  Punch "  or 
"Puck,"  when  "Punch"  and  "Puck"  are  most 
pointed  and  happy  in  their  take-off  of  political 
and  social  questions.  Under  the  patronage  of 
the  State,  it  was  a  part  of  the  Bacchus  cult,  like 
the  lyric  tragedy  of  ^Eschylus  and  Sophocles. 
Woman,  of  course,  had  no  place  in  this  broad  and 
free  jesting  at  whatever  ran  counter  to  the  politi- 
cal, social,  and  personal  view  of  the  poet.  Women, 
however,  do  appear  in  one  play,  in  which,  disguised 
as  men,  they  get  possession  of  the  assembly,  de- 
cree all  sorts  of  laws,  and  behave  in  a  way  that 
would  give  comfort  and  satisfaction  to  the  most 
pronounced  opponent  of  woman-suffrage  at  the 
present  day.  As  democracy  declined,  laws  were 
passed  restricting  in  various  ways  the  comic  poet ; 
and  about  the  time  of  Alexander  the  Great  ap- 
peared what  has  sometimes  been  called  genteel 
comedy,  or  the  comedy  of  manners  and  character. 


THE   GREEK  COMEDY  OF  MANNERS.          I2/ 

The  Latin  plays  of  Plautus  and  Terence  are  only 
translations  or  adaptations  of  these  earlier  Greek 
dramas.  Debarred  from  its  previous  position  as 
public  critic,  political  teacher,  and  exponent  of 
the  national  life,  comedy  lost  its  chorus,  and  was 
restricted  to  individual  manners,  character,  and 
incidents. 

This  Comedy  of  Manners  is  best  known  to  us 
through  Menander,  although  not  a  play  of  his  re- 
mains, and  we  become  acquainted  with  him  only 
through  critics,  scholiasts,  and  fragmentary  scenes 
and  quotations.  He  was  first,  as  Lessing  says,1  not 
in  point  of  time,  but  of  excellence;  and  the  transi- 
tion from  the  old  comedy  to  the  new  was  gradual 
and  almost  imperceptible.  This  new  comedy  is 
marked  by  the  introduction  of  love  as  a  leading 
motif  in  the  action  and  development  of  the  plot. 
But  there  is  a  very  limited  range  of  characters 
and  situations.  The  returned  mercenary,  with  his 
boastful  words,  lavish  folly,  and  greedy  appetites; 
the  cunning  slave  and  unprincipled  courtesan ;  the 
female  slave,  with  whom  the  young  man  falls  in 
love,  who  proves  to  be  some  well-born  damsel ;  the 
unnecessary,  indignant,  or  stupid  parent,  who  is  to 
be  cajoled,  out-generaled,  and  finally  reduced  to  a 
willing  or  passive  consent;  the  strange  turns  and 
quirks  of  fortune  and  chance;  the  foolish  spend- 
thrift, the  contemptible  parasite,  the  wretched 
miser,  the  indispensable  cook  and  purveyor-gene- 
ral to  appetite, —  these  intrigued,  crossed  and  re- 
1  LESSING:  Dramaturgic,  vol.  ii.  p.  173,  note. 


128          THE   GREEK  COMEDY  OF  MANNERS. 

crossed  one  another's  path,  and  formed  the  general 
stock  in  trade  of  comic  writers. 

In  this  later  comedy  chance  plays  the  same  part 
as  fate  in  tragedy;  human  follies  are  contemplated 
from  the  ridiculous  side,  and  nothing  comes  to  a 
serious  and  earnest  issue.  This  comedy  deals  with 
surface-appearances,  not  the  solemn  realities  of  life. 
It  is  not  a  higher  Nemesis  with  its  thunder-bolt, 
the  bursting  forth  of  forces  long  pent-up  which 
find  their  equilibrium  in  the  darting  electric  spark. 
It  is  the  same  element  playing  in  auroral  gleams 
and  broad  sheets  of  harmless  flashings  across  the 
firmament.  It  is  no  crisis,  or  judgment-day,  but 
a  pleasant  tournament,  or  a  market  fair,  where 
the  sudden  shower  determines  no  fate  of  contend- 
ing armies,  but  only  dampens  the  mirth  a  little 
and  wets  some  of  the  fine  uniforms  and  gallant 
plumes. 

In  Shakspeare  we  have  both  tragedy  and  comedy; 
not  only  in  separate  dramas,  but  inextricably  inter- 
woven in  the  same  scene, —  just  as  it  is  in  life, 
where  the  sublime  and  the  ridiculous,  the  severely 
grand  and  the  grotesque,  tear  and  smile,  primal 
granite  and  tenderest  flower,  are  found  close  to- 
gether. Mr.  Ruskin  has  so  aptly  spoken  of  this 
characteristic,  that  I  quote  his  words:  — 

"Shakspeare  has  been  blamed  by  some  few  critical 
asses  ibr  the  raillery  of  Mercutio,  and  the  humor  of  the 
nurse  in  Romeo  and  Juliet;  for  the  fool  in  Lear;  for 
the  porter  in  Macbeth ;  for  the  grave-diggers  in  Hamlet, 
etc.;  because,  it  is  said,  these  bits  interrupt  the  tragic 


THE   GREEK  COMEDY  OF  MANNERS.          1 29 

feeling.  No  such  thing.  They  enhance  it  to  an  incal- 
culable extent ;  they  deepen  its  degree,  though  they  di- 
minish its  duration.  And  what  is  the  result?  That  the 
impression  of  the  agony  of  the  individuals  brought  before 
us  is  far  stronger  than  it  could  otherwise  have  been,  and 
our  sympathies  are  more  forcibly  awakened ;  while  had 
the  contrast  been  wanting,  the  impression  of  pain  would 
have  come  over  into  ourselves,  and  our  selfish  feelings 
instead  of  our  sympathy  would  have  been  awakened, 
the  conception  of  the  grief  of  others  would  have  been 
diminished,  and  the  tragedy  would  have  made  us  very 
uncomfortable,  but  never  have  melted  us  to  tears  or  ex- 
cited us  to  indignation.  When  he  whose  merry  and  satiri- 
cal laugh  rang  in  our  ears  the  moment  before  faints  before 
us  with  '  a  plague  o'  both  your  houses  !  they  have  made 
worms'  meat  of  me  ! '  the  acuteness  of  our  feeling  is  ex- 
cessive ;  but  had  we  not  heard  the  laugh  before,  there 
would  have  been  a  dull  weight  of  melancholy  impression 
which  would  have  been  painful,  not  affecting." 

As  the  Grecian  drama  was  a  purely  indigenous 
product,  it  shows  us  most  clearly  the  moral,  social, 
political,  and  religious  character  of  the  times.  It 
is  a  mirror  faithfully  reflecting  the  nature  of  the 
period,  if  not  Nature  herself.  In  tragedy  there 
was  the  spirit  of  worship,  ideal  aspiration,  the 
embodiment  of  the  national  cultus,  and  its  roots 
were  intertwined  with  the  national  life  itself.  As 
the  mythology  became  dissolved  into  clouds  and 
mists  by  the  analysis  of  the  philosopher,  the  trav- 
esties of  the  comedian,  and  the  indifference  of 
epicurean  indulgence  and  luxurious  sensuality, 

9 


I3O         THE   GREEK  COMEDY  OF  MANNERS. 

the  grand  ideal  representation  palled  upon  the 
taste.  The  serious  drama  ceases  to  be  pictur- 
esque, symbolical,  positive  in  its  tone,  and  be- 
comes subjective,  analytical,  and  didactic.  The 
style  approximates  to  prose,  and  is  more  like  the 
style  of  ordinary  life.  Comedy,  too,  passes  through 
the  same  transitions.  When  the  gods  are  no  lon- 
ger believed  in,  they  cease  to  be  comic  material. 
Broad  caricatures  give  place  to  nicer  delineations 
of  character.  The  political  drama,  too,  loses  its 
edge  when  politics  are  no  longer  the  business  of 
the  people.  With  popular  freedom,  popular  criti- 
cism expires ;  and  as  public  interest  expires,  the 
interest  centres  in  the  intricacy  of  the  plot  and 
the  representation  of  character. 

Of  the  thousands  of  plays  written  by  different 
Greek  authors  of  this  school,  none  remains  entire. 
The  best  representative  was  Menander  of  whom 
are  found  fragments  in  the  criticisms  of  gramma- 
rians, in  collections  of  gnomic  sayings,  and  in  quo- 
tations by  ancient  heathen  and  Christian  writers. 
No  writer  attained  a  greater  circle  of  enthusias- 
tic readers;  and  according  to  the  essay  ascribed  to 
Plutarch  comparing  Aristophanes  and  Menander,  no 
dramatist  was  so  frequently  exhibited  on  the  stage. 
Plutarch  contrasts  the  refined  style  of  Menander 
with  what  he  calls  "  the  blustering,  mean,  obscure, 
turgid,  strutting,  prattling,  and  fooling  style  of 
Aristophanes,"  whose  personages,  he  says,  "do  not 
express  themselves  according  to  character,  stateli- 


THE  GREEK  COMEDY  OF  MANNERS.         131 

ness  in  the  prince,  energy  in  the  orator,  meanness 
of  language  in  a  low  station,  sauciness  or  pertness 
in  a  tradesman,"  etc.  Menander's  style  is,  on  the 
contrary,  "proportioned  to  every  sex,  condition,  and 
age."  As  if  Aristophanes'  drama  were  intended 
to  be  one  of  character,  manners,  or  private  life! 
We  might  as  well  object  to  the  pineapple  because 
it  is  not  an  orange.  Yet  as  showing  the  opinion  of 
Menander  held  in  the  second  century,  when  all  his 
plays  were  entire,  this  testimony  is  exceedingly 
interesting.  Plutarch  says  further:  — 

"  Menander  has  shown  himself  sufficiently  charming, 
being  the  sole  reading,  topic,  and  discussion  at  theatres, 
schools,  and  entertainments,  his  poetry  being  the  most 
universal  ornament  that  was  ever  produced  by  Greece. 
For  what  other  reason  should  a  man  of  learning  and 
talent  frequent  the  theatre,  except  to  hear  Menander? 
And  when  are  the  theatres  better  filled  than  when  his 
comedies  are  performed?  And  at  private  entertainments 
among  friends,  to  whom  do  the  meats  and  the  drinks 
more  justly  give  place?  To  philosophers  also  and  hard 
students  Menander  is  a  rest  from  their  lecturing  and 
their  thinking,  and  entertains  their  minds  with  pleasant 
and  cool  meadows  amidst  the  shade  of  trees  and  re- 
freshing breezes." 

The  comedy  of  Menander  must  have  been  for 
generations  the  best  exponent  of  the  moral  and 
social  conditions  of  his  time.  In  modern  times 
the  nearest  approximation  to  it  is  that  of  Moliere 
in  France.  It  represents  classes  of  characters 


132          THE   GREEK  COMEDY  OF  MANNERS. 

rather  than  distinct  individualities;  types,  and  not 
separate  personalities.  In  Aristophanes,  even, 
who  represents  the  old  comedy,  —  a  broad  carica- 
ture of  manners,  social  tendencies,  politics,  and 
contemporary  men  and  events, —  there  is  already 
to  be  perceived  after  the  parabasis  and  chorus  are 
forbidden,  an  attempt  to  delineate  character.  But 
there  was  no  room  for  any  nice  delineation  or  deli- 
cate shading  on  his  canvas,  covered  as  it  was  with 
groups  of  massive  forms.  Everything  was  pictur- 
esque, imaginative,  fantastic,  an  acted  series  of 
broadest  caricatures,  wherein  the  only  limit  was 
that  the  very  extreme  of  the  ludicrous  was  reached, 
and  one  could  laugh  no  more.  This  end  was  at- 
tained by  dissolving  all  into  a  universal  jest.  With 
the  general  spread  of  philosophic  thought,  however, 
and  the  loss  of  interest  in  public  affairs  (that  were 
now  managed  for  the  people,  and  were  wholly  be- 
yond their  own  interference),  the  intelligence  and 
social  instincts  of  the  rich  and  cultivated  sought 
occupation  in  seeing  private  life  represented.  Man 
himself  became  interesting  to  man.  The  stage  be- 
came a  school  of  manners  and  of  every-day  interest. 
From  the  names  given  to  some  of  the  comedies 
of  Menander,  we  may  see  how  cosmopolitan  an  ele- 
ment had  entered  into  Athenian  life;  how  vastly  the 
sphere  of  experience  had  widened.  One  is  named 
"The  Ephesian,"  another  "The  Thessalian,"  an- 
other "The  Carthaginian,"  another  "The  Corin- 
thian." The  human  element  was  extended ;  on  the 
stage  once  trodden  solely  by  heroes  and  demigods 


THE   CREEK  COMEDY  OF  MANNERS.         133 

now  appeared  plays  named  "The  Fisherman,"  "The 
Pilots,"  "The  Husbandman,"  "The  Shipmaster." 

The  grand  ideals  of  tragedy  were  now  out  of 
place.  What  echo  could  the  austere  forms  of  self- 
sacrifice,  the  heroic  models  of  patriotism  and  reli- 
gious faith  find  in  that  ennuyed  and  enslaved 
community,  whose  greatest  orator  was  Demetrius 
Phalereus,  and  whose  greatest  philosopher  was  Epi- 
curus? Instead  of  the  intense  heat  of  national 
patriotism  and  traditional  belief,  there  was  a  more 
pervasive  sentiment  of  humanity  and  interest  in 
man  as  an  individual  being.  He  appeared  now,  not 
as  the  politician,  the  demagogue,  the  general,  the 
flatterer  of  the  people,  the  public  poet,  and  the  phi- 
losopher, but  in  the  various  forms  that  made  up  the 
private  life  of  the  community.  Youthful  lovers, 
old  misers,  boastful  soldiers,  parasites,  flatterers, 
women  of  pleasure,  victims  of  fraud  and  supersti- 
tion, dupers  and  their  dupes,  enemies  and  friends, 
guardians  and  wards,  —  all  these  found  voice  and 
fitting  form  in  the  comedy  of  Menander. 

The  thin  and  meretricious  comedies  of  Terence 
give  only  a  partial  idea  of  the  style  and  contents 
of  the  plays  of  Menander.  In  the  Greek  dramatist 
love,  honorable  and  domestic,  appears  as  a  motif t 
and  is  widely  sundered  from  the  loose  relations 
that  make  the  staple  of  the  Latin  poet.  The  out- 
lines of  three  comedies  are  given  by  the  scholiasts, 
and  these  show  that  the  drama  had  taken  up  the 
representation  of  domestic  and  home  life  among 
the  people. 


134         THE   GREEK'  COMEDY  OF  MANNERS. 

One  of  these  plays  is  called  "The  Plokion,"  or 
"  Wreath. "  Here  two  marriages  are  contrasted,  — 
the  one  ill-sorted  and  turning  out  badly,  in  which 
the  husband,  tempted  by  a  large  dowry,  had  taken 
to  wife  a  woman  deformed  both  in  body  and  mind; 
the  other  a  genuine  love-match,  crowned  at  last  by 
a  happy  union. 

Another  play,  whose  plot  is  outlined,  is  called 
"  The  Treasure. "  In  this,  a  rich  father  leaves  his 
property  to  his  spendthrift  son  on  condition  that 
at  the  end  of  ten  years  funeral  honors  should  be 
paid  to  himself  at  a  tomb  already  erected  in  one  of 
his  possessions.  The  son  spends  lavishly  his  prop- 
erty, and  even  disposes  of  the  field  in  which  was 
the  tomb,  reserving  to  himself,  however,  the  right 
to  visit  it  and  perform  his  duties  according  to  the 
terms  of  the  will.  When  the  tenth  anniversary 
comes  round,  the  son,  accompanied  by  the  pur- 
chaser, goes  to  the  tomb,  which  is  now  for  the 
first  time  opened.  Therein  a  casket  is  found  con- 
taining a  large  treasure,  from  which  the  play  takes 
its  name.  The  purchaser  claims  it  as  being  a 
deposit  which  he  himself  had  made,  to  hide  it 
from  thieves  and  marauding  soldiers.  The  matter 
is  brought  before  the  courts,  where  the  cause  is 
tried;  and  on  opening  the  casket  a  letter  of  the 
deceased  to  his  son  is  found,  and  decision  is  given 
accordingly.  In  this  letter  the  father  assigns  as 
his  reason  for  making  such  an  arrangement,  that 
the  son's  filial  regard  would  be  tested,  and  re- 
warded or  punished  according  as  he  complied 


,  THE   GREEK  COMEDY  OF  MANNERS.          135 

with  or  disregarded  the  condition;  and  if  he  had 
wasted  the  property  he  had  already  received,  he 
might  become  wiser  by  the  experience,  and  make 
a  good  use  of  the  unexpected  acquisition. 

In  the  third  play,  called  "The  Ghost,"  the  plot 
is  as  follows :  A  widower  with  one  son  marries  a 
woman  who  already  has  a  daughter,  a  circumstance 
which  she  does  not  care  to  make  known.  The 
daughter  lives  in  an  adjoining  house,  and  open- 
ing from  it  is  a  door  into  the  private  boudoir  or 
oratory  of  the  mother,  concealed  by  flowers  and 
votive  offerings.  There  mother  and  daughter  have 
their  meetings.  The  grown-up  son  of  the  husband 
sees  the  beautiful  girl  by  chance,  and  takes  her  to 
be  a  ghost,  a  supernatural  visitation;  but  he  is 
gladly  undeceived,  and  to  the  great  joy  of  the 
mother  leads  her,  as  the  correspondents  say,  to 
the  sacred  altar. 

The  Grecian  idea  of  wife  and  mother  was  that 
of  entire  subjection  and  seclusion.  In  Plato's 
"Republic"  woman  was  made  the  equal  of  man 
in  every  respect ;  and  in  the  succeeding  century 
family  life  became  a  theme  for  comedy,  —  for  a 
revolution  was  going  on  in  the  very  constitution 
of  the  family;  the  secluded  and  cloistral  life  of 
woman  was  being  broken  up,  and  her  position  in 
society  was  in  the  process  of  transformation. 

The  received  Grecian  idea  was  that  the  wife 
should  be  in  seclusion  as  in  a  sanctuary.  Laws 
undoubtedly  at  first  made  for  her  protection,  and 
modes  of  living  inherited  from  a  rude  and  warlike 


136         THE   GREEK  COMEDY  OF  MANNERS. 

condition  of  society,  separated  woman  from  the 
general  atmosphere  of  thought  and  social  inspira- 
tion. In  her  seclusion  she  became  weak,  petty  in 
her  pursuits,  often  rebellious  under  her  chains, 
exacting  in  her  claims,  and  jealous  of  the  authority 
vouchsafed  by  custom  and  the  law.  Her  condition 
showed,  in  fact,  how  fatal  it  is  to  perpetuate  cer- 
tain external  forms  of  living  after  the  conditions 
which  gave  rise  to  them  have  changed.  In  the 
Homeric  times  woman  was  the  honored  equal  of 
man,  because  she  was  the  real  bond  of  the  family 
life,  superintending  its  labors  while  the  warrior 
fought;  and  all  her  sphere  was  within  the  home. 
But  in  the  complex  life  of  the  growing  city,  to 
limit  her  to  the  one  corner  of  the  house  was  to 
make  her  a  slave,  —  causing  her  to  descend  in 
the  scale  of  intelligence,  while  the  husband  was 
ascending.  This  false  position  of  woman  ex- 
plains much  of  the  moral  and  social  degradation 
of  the  wealthy  cities  of  Greece.  The  women  who 
could  be  companions  for  educated  men  were  not 
those  who  had  been  brought  up  in  this  seclusion 
of  the  women's  apartments,  but  were  those  who  had 
been  able  to  acquire  some  instruction,  and  by  their 
freedom  had  shared  in  the  civilizing  and  refining 
elements  of  the  time.  By  the  superstitious  adhe- 
rence to  old  family  institutions  the  very  life  of 
the  family  was  undermined;  and  that  position 
which  an  advancing  civilization  required  the  wife 
and  mother  to  take,  was  occupied  by  the  cultivated 
and  attractive  courtesan. 


THE   CREEK  COMEDY  OF  MANNERS.          137 

The  comedy  of  the  time  derives  many  of  its 
situations  and  many  of  its  traits  of  character  from 
this  anomalous  condition  of  family  life.  The 
woman  does  not  take  kindly  to  her  nun-like  seclu- 
sion when  there  is  so  much  going  on  that  she 
would  like  to  see  and  take  a  part  in;  and  the  man 
can  see  only  one  remedy, —  which  is,  to  put  more 
bolts  on  the  door,  more  bars  on  the  window,  and 
more  spies  all  around. 

Suspicion,  jealousy,  cunning,  and  intrigue  were 
chronic  social  states.  One  of  the  married  women 
in  Menander  says:  "A  sensible  man  ought  not  to 
imprison  his  wife  in  the  back  part  of  his  house,  for 
then  she  gets  to  be  very  curious  about  what  is  go- 
ing on  outside.  If  he  will  only  let  her  go  about 
freely,  see  and  hear  what  she  pleases,  her  curi- 
osity is  satisfied,  and  she  is  kept  from  evil  de- 
sires. Do  not  men  desire  more  eagerly  what  they 
are  forbidden  to  get  ?  He  who  thinks  to  keep  his 
wife  under  lock  and  key  is  very  much  mistaken, 
and  is  nothing  but  an  idiot.  When  our  hearts  are 
outside,  we  can  get  there  straight  as  an  arrow 
or  a  bird  flies;  we  can  deceive  the  hundred  eyes 
of  Argus  himself.  What  then?  Why,  you  are 
laughed  at  for  your  pains."  Thus  speaks  human 
nature  in  the  fourth  century  B.  c.  So  it  spoke  in 
Moliere,  when  he  says, — 

"  Bolts  and  bars  cannot  make  wives  and  daughters  virtuous." 

Another  character  discusses  the  advantages  and 
disadvantages  of  marrying;  what  rights  a  dowry 


138          THE   GREEK  COMEDY  OF  MANNERS. 

brings  with  it;  what  a  plague  it  is  to  have  a  rich 
woman  for  a  wife, —  one  poor  sufferer  saying :  "  You 
will  not  marry,  if  you  are  wise.  I  'm  a  married 
man,  and  that  is  why  I  say  to  you,  'Don't! '  You 
are  going  to  sail  on  a  sea  of  trouble :  it  is  not  the 
African  Sea,  nor  the  ^Egean  Sea,  nor  the  Mediter- 
ranean Sea,  where  at  least  three  vessels  are  saved 
out  of  thirty;  but  it's  a  sea  where  not  a  single 
ship  floats, —  not  one." 

Love  in  this  comedy  is  of  the  same  stamp  with 
that  which  plays  such  an  important  part  in  the 
corrupt  time  of  Charles  II.  and  the  modern  sensa- 
tional French  drama.  It  is  the  product  of  a  social 
state  corrupt  to  the  core.  Yet  there  are  some  few 
plays  where  a  young  man  sees  a  young  girl  of 
whom  he  becomes  ardently  enamoured.  She  is 
poor,  however,  or  in  some  condition  of  life  that 
forms  a  bar  to  marriage.  There  is  the  usual  oppo- 
sition, plots  and  counter-plots,  hope  and  despair, 
until  in  the  cttnodment  the  worthy  young  woman 
turns  out  to  be  of  some  rich  or  noble  family,  and  to 
have  been  carried  away  in  infancy,  etc.  ;  and  thus 
all  goes  to  the  tune  that  has  since  been  played 
so  often.  Some  of  the  sentiments  have  a  truly 
modern  air,  and,  separated  from  their  framework  of 
circumstance,  might  be  expressed  in  some  comedy 
of  manners  in  the  England  or  even  the  America 
of  to-day.  A  young  man  whose  mother  wishes  to 
hinder  him  from  marrying  below  what  is  consid- 
ered his  rank,  says  to  her:  "Always  this  nobility! 
Don't,  mother,  be  forever  setting  up  nobility  of 


THE  GREEK  COMEDY  OF  MANNERS.          139 

family!  If  one  has  no  personal  good  quality,  he 
falls  back  on  his  birth  and  the  monuments  of  his 
ancestors.  But  what 's  the  good  of  that?  Every 
one  has  some  ancestors,  else  he  would  not  be  born. 
If  one  cannot  tell  exactly  who  they  are,  through 
emigration,  captivity,  or  some  other  misfortune, 
must  he  be  any  the  less  well-born  than  those  who 
can  say  who  their  fathers  are?  The  nobleman, 
dear  mother,  is  he  who  is  noble,  even  if  he  were 
born  in  Ethiopia.  '  A  Scythian ! '  they  say, —  '  how 
horrible! '  Well,  was  not  Anacharis  a  Scythian?  " 

So,  too,  wealth  is  an  illusion.  "  I  thought,"  says 
one,  "that  the  rich  slept  tranquilly,  and  that  the 
poor  alone  passed  sleepless  nights;  but  I  see  now 
that  you  rich  folk, —  you  who  are  considered  so 
happy, —  that  you  are  just  like  the  rest  of  us.  Are 
life  and  suffering,  then,  of  the  same  birth  ?  " 

Another  character  says  of  wealth :  — 

"  Our  only  gods,  as  Epicharmus  says, 
Are  air,  fire,  water,  earth,  the  sun,  the  stars ; 
But  I  maintain  the  only  useful  gods 
Are  gold  and  silver.     Set  up  these  two 
As  household  gods  within  your  home ;  pray  to  them, 
And  all  ye  pray  for  instantly  is  yours,  — 
Fields,  houses,  hosts  of  servants,  silver  plate, 
Friends,  judges,  witnesses.     Give,  only  give  ; 
The  very  gods  are  at  your  humble  service." 

Many  choice  sayings  of  Menander  have  been  pre- 
served by  different  writers,  which  show  a  spontaneous 
kindliness  of  feeling,  a  universal  good-will,  a  gentle 
irony  free  from  harshness,  and  a  satire  melancholy 
indeed,  but  without  severity.  It  is  this  sorrowful 


140          THE   GREEK  COMEDY  OF  MANNERS. 

human  tenderness,  this  expression  of  sentiments 
belonging  to  the  common  lot  of  humanity,  that 
gave  Menander  his  hold  upon  his  contemporaries, 
and  has  embalmed  some  of  his  sayings  in  the  writ- 
ings of  succeeding  generations.  In  translation  their 
aroma  escapes.  Here  are  a  few  of  them :  — 

"  A  slave,  in  fine,  is  made  of  as  good  flesh  as  we  are." 

"  No  noble  man  can  be  ignobly  born." 

"  A  man  is  a  man  even  in  slavery." 

"  Teach  youth,  for  men  you  '11  find  unteachable." 

"  Think  all  the  sorrows  of  your  friends  your  own." 

"  The  conscience  is  the  god  within  us  all." 

"  Who  loves  himself  too  much  is  loved  by  none." 

"  To  live  is  not  to  live  for  oneself  alone." 

Evidently  the  human  had  found  an  interpreter. 
The  loud  cry  of  city  against  city  had  been  hushed, 
and  that  common  sentiment  was  forming  which 
would  recognize  the  master-word,  "  He  has  made 
of  one  blood  all  nations,"  as  the  rallying  cry  of  all 
noble  souls.  There  is  also  the  recurring  strain, 
so  frequent  in  Horace,  of  the  fleeting  nature  of  all 
earthly  happiness,  the  ills  of  mortal  life,  the  impar- 
tial omnipresence  of  the  great  leveller  death.  A 
shadow  had  passed  over  the  clear  sky  and  sparkling 
seas  of  Greece. 

"  If  you  would  know  yourself  and  what  you  are, 
Go  to  the  tombs  of  the  illustrious  dead : 
There  lie  the  bones  of  kings  in  common  dust ; 
There  are  the  rich,  the  noble,  and  the  wise ; 
There  beauty  and  renown,  —  one  lot  to  all. 
Reflect,  whoe'er  thou  art,  and  know  thyself." 


THE   CREEK  COMEDY  OF  MANNERS.         141 

The  refrain  also  comes,  Happy  he  who  dies  when 
young,  before  old  age  and  changing  fortune  have 
laid  upon  him  their  heavy  hand. 

"  For  what  is  life,  the  longest  life  of  man, 
But  the  same  scene  repeated  o'er  and  o'er? 
A  few  more  lingering  days  to  be  consumed 
In  throngs  and  crowds,  with  sharpers,  knaves,  and  thieves." 

"  Better  be  a  dog,  a  horse,  an  ass,  than  be  a  man, 
and  see  unworthy  men  lord  it  over  patient  merit." 
Again:  "You  are  a  man,  and  as  man  you  are  to 
expect  to  be  thrown  from  the  highest  prosperity 
to  the  lowest  adversity.  Bear  up,  then,  as  a  man, 
for  as  yet  you  have  suffered  no  extraordinary 
calamity." 

As  showing  that  there  were  some  sources  of 
consolation  even  in  that  dark  hour,  we  hear  these 
words,  astonishing  indeed  as  spoken  on  that  stage 
as  part  of  the  acted  life  of  that  time:  — 

"  God  is  everywhere  present,  and  sees  all." 
"  Without  God,  no  man  can  be  happy." 
"  If  you  perform  a  good  act,  be  of  good  hope,  knowing  well 
this,  —  that  God  is  a  sharer  in  every  good  undertaking." 
"  God  is  not  deaf  to  the  just  man's  prayer." 

It  is  God,  and  not  gods,  in  the  verse  of  the  poet. 
Well  may  we  suppose  that  the  Apostle  quoted  from 
Menander  when  he  said :  "  As  one  of  your  own  poets 
has  said,  'We  are  His  offspring.'  ' 

No  wonder  that  one  has  said  that  if  he  could  res- 
cue any  one  ancient  author  from  oblivion,  it  would 
be  Menander.  Quintilian  says  of  Menander:1  — 

1  Institutes,  book  x.  chap.  i.  §  169. 


142          THE   GREEK  COMEDY  OF  MANNERS. 

"  Menander  admired  Euripides  greatly,  and  even  imi- 
tated him,  though  in  a  different  department  of  the  drama  ; 
and  Menander  alone,  in  my  judgment,  would,  if  sufficiently 
read,  suffice  to  generate  all  those  qualities  in  the  student 
of  oratory  for  which  I  am  an  advocate,  —  so  exactly  does 
he  represent  all  the  phases  of  human  life,  such  is  his 
fertility  of  invention  and  easy  grace  of  expression,  and 
so  readily  does  he  adapt  himself  tq  all  circumstances, 
persons,  and  feelings." 

Again :  — 

"  For  speakers,  it  is  necessary  to  assume  various  char- 
acters,—  those  of  fathers,  sons,  soldiers,  peasants,  rich 
men  and  poor  men,  angry  persons  and  beseeching  per- 
sons, those  who  are  mild  and  those  who  are  rough.  Now, 
in  all  these  characters  Menander  observes  a  wonderful 
appropriateness,  so  that  he  has  left  all  other  dramatists  of 
that  kind  scarcely  a  name,  the  splendor  of  his  reputation 
throwing  them  entirely  into  the  shade." l 

There  can  be  no  more  interesting  study  than 
that  of  the  rise  and  progress  of  the  Grecian  drama, 
from  its  first  rude  beginnings  in  the  religious 
chorus  celebrating  the  exploits  of  the  creative, 
nourishing,  and  inspiring  power  in  Nature  and 
life,  through  the  various  phases  of  its  development, 
expressing  the  intellectual,  social,  and  political 
changes,  —  a  truly  national  drama.  From  it  can 
be  gained  a  concrete  and  life-like  presentation  of 
the  progress  and  decline  of  Grecian  faith,  Grecian 
freedom,  and  Grecian  manners.  Throughout,  we 

1  Institutes,  book  x.  chap.  i.  §  71. 


THE   GREEK  COMEDY  OF  MANNERS.         143 

trace  the  process  by  which  the  human  element  is 
broadened  and  deepened,  the  subject-matters  of 
thought  extended  and  made  more  complex,  the 
entire  sphere  of  existence  enlarged,  and  man's 
relations  to  man  substituted  for  man's  relation  to 
the  gods  and  other  supernatural  powers.  It  is  a 
record  of  the  growth  of  humanity;  and  being  free 
from  foreign  admixture  and  influences  from  with- 
out, this  literature  is  the  freest  exponent  of  the 
essential  principles  of  the  drama,  and  of  its  normal 
unfolding.  An  understanding  of  it,  of  the  place 
it  filled,  the  means  by  which  it  attained  its  ends, 
its  processes  of  idealizing,  and  its  resources  for 
awakening  pity,  fear,  sympathy,  and  the  higher 
emotions  of  the  soul, — this  understanding  is  the 
best  preparation  for  a  thorough  comprehension  of 
that  wonderful  Shakspearian  drama,  in  which  are 
embodied  in  a  form  not  less  perfect  the  deeper  and 
more  universal  life  of  our  modern  era. 


VIII. 

PLATO'S   REPUBLIC. 

THE  student  of  Grecian  history  finds  in  it  a  won- 
derful likeness  in  miniature  of  his  own  times,  —  the 
same  stirring  interests,  the  same  mental,  moral,  and 
social  problems,  that  now  occupy  the  attention  of 
thinkers,  and  lovers  of  truth.  Our  age  has  no  mo- 
nopoly of  social  dreams  and  Utopian  common- 
wealths ;  for  Greece  had  them  before  Plato's  time, 
in  the  philosophic  community  which  Pythagoras 
sought  to  establish  in  Magna  Graecia ;  and  widely 
spread  must  have  been  the  dreams  and  tendencies 
which  Aristophanes  satirized  in  his  inimitable  verse. 
No  popular  caricaturist  would  take  the  pains  to  raise 
a  laugh  against  woman's  participation  in  affairs  of 
government  and  society,  if  such  an  attempt  were 
the  dream  only  of  some  one  speculative  philoso- 
pher, and  had  no  general  vogue.  Plato's  philo- 
sophic scheme  stands  out  now  as  a  solitary  peak, 
but  it  must  have  been  one  of  a  mountain  range. 
Among  those  small  Grecian  States  there  were  in- 
deed the  seething  elements  of  every  form  of  gov- 
ernment, from  the  unbridled  tyranny  of  the  despot 
to  the  unlicensed  despotism  of  the  wildest  de- 
mocracy, passing  through  all  grades  of  modified 


PLATO'S  REPUBLIC.  145 

aristocracies  of  every  shade  and  tint  of  exclusive- 
ness  and  worth. 

The  philosophers  of  Greece  were  essentially  un- 
democratic, and  excited  the  fears  of  the  ignorant 
•many,  —  as  if  philosophy  were  necessarily  some  hos- 
tile element.  This  led  to  the  expulsion  of  Pythag- 
oras and  to  the  death  of  Socrates.  The  bearing 
of  Plato  towards  the  industrious  crowd,  the  men  of 
industry  and  toil,  was  one  of  aversion  and  contempt. 
In  his  view,  the  philosopher  could  be  neither  a 
man  in  public  life  nor  a  man  of  affairs ;  above  all, 
he  must  not  be  engaged  in  business,  trade,  or  me- 
chanical or  agricultural  employments.  All  this  was 
regarded  by  Plato  as  unworthy  a  man  whose  specu- 
lations must  be  on  the  highest  themes,  and  his  robes 
free  from  the  dirt  of  earthly  concerns. 

Towards  democratic  Athens  Plato  felt  no  attrac- 
tion ;  towards  aristocratic  Sparta  he  was  strongly 
drawn.  The  Spartan  institutions  had  existed  for  hun- 
dreds of  years ;  and  in  their  grave  simplicity,  their 
austere  temperance,  their  indifference  to  pleasure  and 
comfort,  they  came  the  nearest  to  the  philosophic 
ideal.  It  is  on  those  lines  of  Spartan  exclusiveness, 
and  the  crushing  out  of  every  trace  of  Athenian 
democracy,  that  Plato  has  constructed  his  ideal 
commonwealth,  —  the  Spartan  institutions  being  the 
rough  rffodel  of  those  in  the  Republic.  These  in- 
stitutions were  ascribed  to  Lycurgus,  but  they  were 
really  founded  in  a  great  antiquity,  and  no  more 
belonged  to  Lycurgus  as  exclusive  author  than  the 
Hebrew  code  to  Moses.  But  in  making  artificial 


146  PLATO'S  REPUBLIC. 

commonwealths  this  fact  was  forgotten;  and  ap- 
parently Plato  thought  it  as  easy  to  construct  a 
commonwealth  as  to  build  a  house.  Thus  have 
thought  Utopian  theorists  of  a  later  time 

But  in  treating  of  Greek  history,  it  is  well  to  bear 
in  mind  that  — 

"  Few  distinctions  are  so  important  for  a  true  under- 
standing of  history,  as  that  between  liberty  in  the  classic 
and  in  the  modern  sense  of  the  word.  An  Englishman, 
when  he  desires  liberty,  thinks  of  it  as  the  desire  of  in- 
dividual development,  the  soil  on  which  strongly  marked 
character  flourishes  most  vigorously.  It  is  doubtful 
whether  a  Greek  would  have  understood  what  this 
means,  and  still  more  whether  he  would  have  thought 
it  desirable.  Indeed,  we  may  say  that  the  Greek  love 
of  liberty  embodied  the  very  opposite  feeling  to  this. 
There  never  could  have  been  a  city  less  free  than  Sparta, 
according  to  our  ideas ;  and  evidently  in  making  it  the 
model  of  his  Republic,  Plato  was  not  contemplating  as  a 
possibility  the  reproach  that  he  was  a  foe  to  liberty.  He 
and  his  contemporaries  meant  by  liberty  something  which 
was  compatible  with  any  amount  of  despotic  regulation 
of  individual  life.  The  ideal  republic  of  liberty-loving 
Greece  would  have  been  a  despotism  more  intolerable 
to  modern  feeling  than  the  most  despotic  kingdom  of 
modern  Europe."  1 

Yet  to-day  these  despotic  features  recur  in  many 
modern  plans  to  rescue  society  from  its  evils,  and 
produce  an  ideal  state  of  well-being.     The  subjec- 
tion of  a  workman  to  his  fraternity,  or  Union,  is 
1  The  Moral  Ideal.     By  Julia  Wedgwood.     P.  104. 


PLATO'S  REPUBLIC.  147 

often  such  as  to  annihilate  all  freedom  of  choice,  all 
liberty  in  individual  act.  He  voluntarily  signs 
away  his  individual  liberty,  and  is  made  to  do  what 
his  own  conscience  or  his  own  sense  of  expediency 
condemns.  He  gives  up  his  own  wrists  and  ankles 
to  be  fettered,  and  renounces  his  own  freedom  of 
action.  Are  we  to  go  back  to  this  ideal  of  Grecian 
life,  in  which  the  individual  was  nothing,  and  the 
city  or  State  was  all?  The  advance  of  our  modern 
civilization  began  in  this  very  separation  of  man 
from  the  group,  of  man  from  the  citizen,  and  mak- 
ing him,  whether  tradesman,  laborer,  merchant,  or 
soldier,  a  self-governing,  self-respecting  man.  He 
was  no  longer  a  mere  appendage  to  the  State,  not 
a  wheel  or  cog  in  a  vast  machine,  but  a  living  unit, 
for  whom  all  machines  were  made. 

It  is  not  fair  to  Plato  to  look  upon  his  Republic,  or 
polity  of  a  city,  as  an  end  in  itself.  His  purpose 
was  not  to  write  a  treatise  upon  the  constitution  of 
a  commonwealth,  as  a  pattern  for  all  who  would 
build  up  States ;  but  to  furnish  an  illustration  of 
that  broader  theme  of  what  constitutes  justice  and 
what  injustice,  —  the  only  necessary  thing  for  an  in- 
telligent man  to  know.  Now,  as  there  is  an  analogy 
between  the  individual  man  and  the  State  of  which 
he  forms  a  part,  justice  can  be  studied  in  the  larger 
form  of  the  State  better  than  in  the  individual  man. 
The  letters  composing  it  are  there  written  in  a  large 
round  hand,  and  can  be  more  readily  deciphered. 
The  city,  however,  in  which  the  form  of  justice  can 
be  discerned,  is  not  any  actual  commonwealth,  but 


148  PLATO'S  REPUBLIC. 

an  ideal  one,  constructed  upon  man's  supposed  es- 
sential nature,  and  governed  according  to  the  high- 
est principles  of  abstract,  philosophic  reason.  Plato 
sees  clearly  the  vital  connection  which  should  exist 
between  all  the  different  members  of  a  community ; 
and  he  makes  this  general  sensitiveness  the  test  of 
a  well-regulated  State.  He  uses  precisely  the 
same  expression  that  has  been  made  use  of  by 
Shakspeare,  a  finger-ache  being  felt  throughout 
the  whole  body.  "  In  a  well-regulated  State,"  he 
says,  "just  as  in  the  individual  man,  when  the  finger 
is  wounded,  the  sensation  extends  throughout  the 
whole;  and  by  reason  of  the  common  principle  of 
life  or  soul,  such  a  State  will  feel  that  she  herself  is 
the  one  hurt,  and  will  mourn  with  the  injured  mem- 
ber." This  feeling  of  unity  must  be  preserved  by 
taking  away  the  occasions  for  jealousy,  rivalry,  and 
envy.  The  mother  will  not  scheme  for  her  darling, 
for  as  there  is  no  individual  household  she  does 
not  know  which  child  is  her  darling.  The  guardian 
soldier  will  not  become  a  tyrant,  because,  already 
supported  at  the  public  charge,  he  has  no  tempta- 
tion to  possess  himself  of  the  person  or  goods  of 
citizens. 

Plato's  commonwealth  is  meant  to  be  a  true 
aristocracy,  —  that  is,  a  government  by  the  wisest 
and  the  best.  These  will  always  be  the  minority, 
"  the  precious  remnant,"  of  which  Matthew  Arnold 
spoke.  As  man  is  threefold  in  his  spiritual  con- 
stitution, so  will  the  State  be  based  on  this  three- 
fold division  of  reason,  energy  (or  will),  and  appetite 


PLATO'S  REPUBLIC.  149 

(or  desire).  Reason  is  seated  in  the  brain,  energy 
in  the  breast,  and  appetite  in  the  abdomen.  At  the 
basis  of  the  State  are  the  laborers,  the  cultivators  of 
the  soil,  the  tradesmen,  —  that  is,  all  of  the  indus- 
trial class.  Then  come  the  soldiers,  the  military 
class ;  and  then  the  governors  and  teachers,  or 
official  class.  Through  the  energy  of  will,  thought 
rules  over  and  directs  the  lower  appetites ;  and  so 
the  highest  grade  in  Plato's  commonwealth,  the 
philosophers,  rule  over  and  direct  the  masses  of 
the  laborers  and  artisans  through  the  middle  class, 
the  assistant  guardians  or  military  auxiliaries.  This 
second  grade  consists  of  the  exclusive  defenders 
and  protectors  of  the  city,  and  they  are  absolutely 
free  from  all  the  cares  and  labors  of  ordinary  life. 
The  abdomen  does  not  perform  the  work  of  the 
heart,  nor  the  heart  that  of  the  brain.  The  highest 
class  can  engage  neither  in  labor  nor  in  trade :  the 
philosopher  must  devote  himself  to  thinking,  the 
soldier  to  righting,  and  the  laborer  to  working. 
The  dividing  line  between  the  castes  can  never  be 
passed  over,  as  the  perfection  of  the  whole  consists 
in  each  one  performing  perfectly  his  own  part.  The 
rulers  are  to  have  wisdom ;  the  soldiers  fortitude, 
or  courage;  and  the  workmen  temperance,  or 
obedience. 

But  how  is  the  State  necessary? 

The  State  has  its  foundation  in  human  wants,  and 
no  man  is  sufficient  for  himself.  From  this  fact, 
that  no  one  is  self-sufficing,  springs  the  necessity  of 
those  .who  live  in  one  place  forming  one  commu- 


I5O  PLATO'S  REPUBLIC. 

nity,  wherein  each  person  imparts  to  others  what  he 
has,  and  receives  from  others  what  he  wants.  The 
most  pressing  want  is  food  ;  then  lodging,  clothing, 
etc.  One  man  becomes  a  husbandman,  another  a 
builder,  another  a  weaver,  another  a  shoemaker,  — 
each  one  having  a  natural  fitness  for  some  one 
kind  of  work,  since  each  is  born  unlike  to  any 
other. 

The  "  Republic  "  has  nothing  to  say  about  the 
morals,  the  education,  or  the  condition  of  the  great 
body  of  the  workers.  They  are,  for  the  most  part, 
slaves  or  aliens,  —  people  born  to  eat,  sleep,  indulge 
their  various  appetites,  and  work  for  the  support  of 
the  chosen  few  warriors  and  philosophers,  who  will 
make  for  them  all  necessary  arrangements  and  pro- 
vide for  their  happiness  better  than  they  can  provide 
for  themselves.  The  education  of  the  guardians 
is  to  be  such  as  will  make  them  what  Carlyle 
was  always  clamoring  for,  —  the  natural  leaders 
and  the  wise  helpers  in  the  common  life  of  the 
Platonic  city.  This  care  for  the  philosophic  and 
military  guardians  was  to  begin  before  birth ;  for 
only  fitting  mates  were  to  be  arranged,  with  all  care 
on  the  part  of  the  governing  body  for  the  health 
and  character  of  the  offspring.  No  permanent  life- 
partnerships  were  to  be  made,  but  the  governing 
body  was  to  arrange  with  consummate  wisdom  all 
unions  of  men  and  women  under  a  certain  age,  giv- 
ing to  the  parties  a  seeming  choice  by  lot.  Every 
element  of  individual  love  and  personal  affection  on 
the  part  of  these  State  guardians  was  to  be  eliminated. 


PLATO'S  REPUBLIC.  151 

They  were  to  have  no  care  for  subsistence,  and  to  be 
free  from  all  but  the  most  disinterested  devotion  to 
the  welfare  of  the  city  of  which  they  had  the  charge. 
They  were  to  be  neither  husbands  nor  fathers  nor 
human  beings  in  any  ordinary  sense  of  those  words. 
They  were  to  possess  neither  individual  property  nor 
separate  goods,  but  in  a  sublime  sense  of  being  a 
godlike  providence  to  the  inferior  race  of  beings 
whom  they  protected  and  watched  over,  they  were 
to  keep  themselves  secluded  from  the  base  and  de- 
basing world,  and  nourish  in  themselves  all  the  arts 
of  wisdom,  and  all  the  means  of  strength.  In  their 
childhood  they  were  to  hear  none  of  the  degrading 
stories  of  the  gods,  —  Plato  bringing  against  the  old 
national  poets  the  same  charges  that  have  been 
brought  against  some  parts  of  the  Old  Testament  in 
our  day,  that  they  degraded  the  deities,  and  gave  a 
wrong  direction  to  the  youthful  imagination  and 
heart.  Nothing  was  to  be  admitted  in  the  educa- 
tion of  these  guardians  which  would  hinder  them 
from  becoming  "  pious  and  divine  men."  The 
rhythm  and  harmony  that  belonged  to  the  soul 
were  to  be  brought  out  by  a  proper  training ;  and 
thus  "  a  man  would  perceive  at  once  whatever  was 
bad  or  defective  in  any  workmanship,  would  rejoice 
in  what  was  beautiful,  and  foster  it  in  his  soul,  de- 
spising what  was  base,  even  from  early  youth  and 
before  reason  was  developed,  and  embracing  what 
partook  of  reason  from  its  intimate  relationship 
with  himself."  He  was  to  be  so  trained  that  he 
would  need  neither  lawyers  nor  physicians ;  he  will 


152  PLATO'S  REPUBLIC. 

go  through  a  course  of  labors,  trials,  and  contests, 
—  "  while  yet  young  being  subjected  to  various  ter- 
rible tests,  and  then  thrown  back  into  pleasures ; 
tried  more  than  gold  in  the  fire,  that  he  may  show 
whether  he  is  in  just  rhythm  and  harmony."  And 
he  who  had  been  thus  tried,  and  come  out  pure, 
was  to  be  appointed  governor  and  guardian  of  the 
State ;  "  honors  were  to  be  paid  him  while  he  lived, 
and  at  his  death  he  should  receive  the  highest 
reward  of  public  burial." 

All  men  were  brethren,  it  was  to  be  taught,  and 
from  one  common  mother,  the  earth.  But  those 
who  were  able  to  be  governors,  —  the  real  philoso- 
phers, — had  gold  mixed  in  the  material  of  which 
they  were  made ;  those  who  were  able  to  be  aids  and 
helpers  had  silver;  and  the  husbandmen  and  arti- 
sans had  iron  and  brass.  Plato  cites  an  oracle,  which 
said  that  whenever  iron  or  brass  should  come  to  be 
guardians  the  city  would  perish ;  and  hence  those 
children  who  had  no  silver  or  gold  in  their  make-up 
were  to  be  thrust  down  among  the  iron  or  brass  to 
which  they  really  belonged.  Over  nothing  were  the 
guardians  to  keep  closer  watch  ;  and  if  any  child 
of  the  people  should  show  unmistakably  the  vein  of 
gold,  he  was  to  be  taken  under  the  care  of  the  guar- 
dians, and  receive  the  same  training  as  if  he  were 
born  of  their  number. 

What  arrangements  were  made  in  Plato's  scheme 
to  develop  this  golden  germ  in  any  child?  It  does 
not  appear ;  and  we  may  say,  that  if  many  such 
children  were  to  spring  from  the  iron  and  the  brass 


PLATO'S  REPUBLIC.  153 

parentage  of  the  common  herd,  his  whole  sys- 
tem of  exclusive  education  would  prove  a  useless 
nullity. 

Plato  claims,  however,  that  in  his  commonwealth 
every  human  being  would  find  his  level,  and  every 
one  settle  in  that  place  for  which  the  qualities  of  his 
nature  had  fitted  him.  Yet  the  same  chance  was 
not  given  to  all,  and  it  must  be  against  vast  odds 
that  any  shining  nugget  would  crop  out  so  as  to 
be  seen  and  transferred  to  the  jeweller's  manipulat- 
ing skill. 

How  completely  Plato  derived  from  the  institu- 
tions of  Sparta  the  practical  regulations  for  the 
education  and  daily  life  of  his  guardian  class,  to 
whom  all  government  and  all  military  powers  were 
intrusted,  may  be  seen  from  a  slight  consideration  of 
Spartan  customs,  (i)  In  Sparta  the  citizens  were 
obliged  to  eat  at  the  common  tables,  living  upon  the 
simplest  fare.  (2)  Plutarch  says  that  Lycurgus 
strove  to  drive  away  from  the  Spartan  men  the  vain 
and  womanish  passion  of  jealousy,  making  it  quite 
reputable  to  have  children  in  common  with  persons 
of  merit;  for  he  considered  children  not  so  much  the 
property  of  their  parents  as  of  the  State.  (3)  The 
Spartan  father  could  not  rear  what  children  he 
pleased,  but  he  must  carry  the  child  to  a  public  place 
to  be  examined ;  and  if  it  was  weakly  and  deformed, 
it  was  thrown  into  a  deep  cavern  called  "  apothetae  ; " 
so  were  weak  and  deformed  children  exposed  in 
Plato's  Republic.  (4)  When  the  Spartan  children 
were  seven  years  old,  they  were  enrolled  in  compa- 


154  PLATO'S  REPUBLIC. 

nies,  and  all  kept  under  the  same  instruction  and  dis- 
cipline. (5)  Sparta  was  simply  a  great  camp,  —  as 
the  home  of  Plato's  guardians  was  but  a  military 
barrack,  without  any  of  the  adornments  or  con- 
veniences of  ordinary  existence.  (6)  The  Spar- 
tan was  forbidden  to  engage  in  any  business  or 
trade,  or  exercise  any  vocation  by  which  wealth 
could  be  gained ;  his  business  was  to  devote  him- 
self to  the  honor,  safety,  and  glory  of  his  country. 
(7)  The  training  of  the  Spartan  girls  was  like  that 
of  the  boys  in  athletic  exercises,  with  like  contests 
in  wrestling  and  running,  clothed  only  with  a  light 
tunic,  open  at  the  skirts  ;  they  formed  a  part  of 
the  religious  and  patriotic  processions,  and  at  the 
public  festivals  sang  and  danced.  So  in  Plato's  Re- 
public ;  the  men  and  women  of  the  guardian  class 
lived  together,  drilled  together,  —  from  the  earliest 
years  being  under  the  same  superintendence,  and 
having  the  same  education. 

It  was  a  doctrine  with  Plato,  strange  for  that  age, 
that  whatever  man  could  do,  woman  could  do  also ; 
and  that  the  training  which  was  best  for  man  was 
best  also  for  woman.  There  was  no  reason  in  the 
nature  of  things,  he  says,  why  the  woman  should  be 
restricted  to  indoor  occupations ;  and  from  the  mere 
difference  of  sex  no  argument  could  be  drawn 
as  to  fitness  or  unfitness  for  different  occupations. 
Only  as  they  were  properly  trained  could  men 
perform  fittingly  the  office  of  guardians ;  and  on 
the  same  terms  women  also  could  be  equally  well 
fitted. 


PLATO'S  REPUBLIC.  155 

But  while  in  its  positive  arrangements  this  polity 
embraced  many  of  the  leading  Spartan  regulations, 
it  also  negatively  eschewed  the  individual  freedom 
of  Athenian  democratic  ideas.  For  these  Plato  had 
no  sympathy,  and  not  even  any  tolerance.  He 
shrank  from  them  with  all  the  bitterness  of  uncon- 
genial temperament,  and  all  the  contempt  of  a 
philosophic  superiority.  That  mass  of  people 
crowded  in  the  law-courts,  in  the  public  assemblies, 
shouting,  stamping,  hooting,  or  applauding,  —  it  was 
his  aversion;  and  to  meet  their  approbation  was  in 
his  eyes  treason  to  manliness  and  honor.  "  Do  you 
not  know,"  he  asks,  "  that  they  punish  with  exile, 
fines,  and  death  him  whom  they  cannot  influence?  " 
The  "  people  "  was  a  great  wild  beast,  which  was  to 
be  kept  in  good  humor  and  pleased  if  one  would  not 
be  torn  in  pieces.  In  the  degradation  of  a  common- 
wealth, it  passed  through  different  forms  of  govern- 
ment until  it  reached  democracy,  on  its  way  to  an 
anarchy  only  to  be  superseded  by  some  form  of  ab- 
solute tyranny.  Whenever  in  a  State  the  poor  get 
the  uppermost,  banish  and  kill  the  rich,  and  share 
among  themselves  the  magistracies  and  offices  of 
State,  a  democracy  becomes  established ;  every 
one  does  as  he  pleases,  and  all  sorts  of  characters 
spring  up.  Those  are  honored  who  flatter  the 
multitude  and  cater  to  its  whims. 

Here  Plato  draws  that  picture  which  Alcibiades, 
or  many  another  of  the  jeunesse  dort  may  have 
sat  for,  —  of  a  young  man,  indulging  every  passing 
desire;  now  getting  drunk  at  the  sound  of  a  flute, 


156  PLATO'S  REPUBLIC. 

and  now  drinking  only  water;  at  one  time  practising 
gymnastics,  at  other  times  lazy  and  idle;  at  one 
period  playing  the  politician,  at  another  imitating 
some  soldier  or  merchant ;  his  life  regulated  by  no 
plan  or  law,  —  a  truly  democratic  character.  A  de- 
mocracy, in  fine,  is  a  lawless  and  motley  affair, 
"  giving  equal  rights  to  unequal  persons." 

In  such  a  State  as  this,  how  can  philosophy  be 
cultivated,  and  how  can  the  philosopher  be  formed? 
Some  well-disposed  youth  may  try  to  emerge  from 
the  corrupting  tendencies,  but  being  one  only 
against  the  host  of  wild  beasts,  he  must  at  last  suc- 
cumb and  perish,  without  any  profit  to  the  world. 
Like  a  man  sheltered  from  a  storm  of  wind  and  dust 
under  some  wall,  this  man  will  attend  to  his  own 
affairs,  content  to  pass  his  life  pure  from  injustice 
and  corruption,  and  make  at  last  a  cheerful  and 
quiet  exit.  And  why  must  his  life  be  this  failure? 
"Because,"  says  Plato,  "he  has  had  no  suitable 
form  of  government  to  live  under."  "  This  is  what 
I  complain  of,"  he  says  again,  "  that  no  existing 
constitution  of  a  State  is  worthy  of  a  philosophic 
nature."  And  so  he  will  construct  one,  wherein 
philosophy  shall  have  its  rights,  and  the  philoso- 
phers shall  rule.  Occupied  with  what  is  real  and 
eternal,  beautiful  and  in  harmony  with  reason,  they 
will  imitate  what  they  admire,  and  will  put  upon  the 
canvas  the  divine  pattern  which  they  behold.  And 
until  such  as  these  have  the  government  of  the 
State,  he  affirms,  the  miseries  of  States  will  not  have 
an  end. 


PLATO'S  REPUBLIC. 


'57 


Plato  imagined  he  had  constructed  a  State  in 
which  individual  tastes  and  tendencies,  personal 
predilections  and  sensual  temptations,  would  be  ut- 
terly extinguished.  These  guardians  are  not  men 
and  women,  but  philosophic  machines  moved  by 
wires  beyond  their  control.  Their  breathing  can 
have  no  irregular  movement,  their  pulse  no  quick- 
ening, and  their  cheeks  no  mantling  blush.  They 
are  as  dead  to  human  interests  as  the  mediaeval 
monk,  or  the  begging  friar  of  the  Catholic  Church. 
They  have  no  personal  interests,  but  are  official  in- 
struments. They  have  no  occasion  to  exercise  vir- 
tuous aspirations  or  put  forth  individual  efforts,  or 
be  moved  by  pity  or  fear.  Better  the  anarchy  even 
of  individual  hopes  and  aspirations  than  this  frozen 
surface  of  social  monotony ! 

But  however  impracticable  Plato's  socialistic 
dream  may  appear,  let  it  always  be  remembered 
that  he  was  planning  for  no  mere  vulgar  enjoyment, 
aspiring  for  no  sensual  delight,  clutching  no  passing 
satisfactions  of  time  and  sense.  He  sought,  after 
all,  for  a  city  which  should  have  eternal  foundations 
in  the  human  soul,  and  whose  builder  should  be 
God.  His  high  intent  shines  out  in  the  closing 
paragraph  of  his  book:  — 

"  If  the  company  will  be  persuaded  by  me,  regarding 
the  soul  as  immortal  and  able  to  bear  all  evil  and  good, 
we  shall  always  persevere  in  the  road  which  leads  upward ; 
and  above  all  else  shall  follow  after  justice  united  with 
wisdom,  that  thus  we  may  be  friends  to  the  gods  as  well 
as  to  ourselves,  both  while  we  remain  in  this  state  of  be- 


158  PLATO'S  REPUBLIC. 

ing,  and  when,  afterwards,  like  victors  assembled  together 
we  receive  its  rewards.  And  so,  both  here  and  in  that 
journey  of  a  thousand  years,  we  shall  be  happy." 

Plato,  then,  sought  to  give  the  model  of  an  ideal 
commonwealth  which  should  be  the  perfect  em- 
bodiment, in  the  largest  capital  letters,  (i)  of  Justice, 
or  Righteousness;  (2)  a  commonwealth  in  which 
every  soul  should  find  its  own  proper  place;  (3)  in 
which  woman  should  take  her  place  on  an  equality 
with  man ;  and  (4)  in  which  the  Best,  —  the  lovers  of 
wisdom,  the  subjects  of  reason,  the  disinterested 
followers  of  truth,  —  should  be  the  acknowledged 
rulers. 

Plato's  ends  were  lofty,  and  his  dreams  were  noble ; 
yet  the  edifice  which  he  builded  seems  now  but  a 
sorry  make-shift,  because  no  individual  plan  can  ever 
satisfy  the  demands  of  the  universal  spirit ;  because 
the  building  which  it  is  erecting  is  of  such  immense 
proportions  and  such  indescribable  grandeur.  The 
ideals  which  inspire  the  minds  of  this  present  hour 
are  as  grand  as  Plato  ever  mused  upon ;  but  his 
actual  plans,  suggested  by  the  institutions  and  social 
manifestations  of  his  day,  are  but  a  child's  house  of 
cards  compared  with  the  mighty  cathedral  of  which 
the  spirit  of  humanity  is  laying  stone  upon  stone 
before  our  very  eyes.  Plato  would  have  his  ideal 
commonwealth  a  unit,  so  that  the  need  of  the  re- 
motest extremity  should  be  at  once  felt  and  re- 
sponded to  by  the  wisest  and  the -best;  and  does 
space  make  any  obstacle  to-day  to  the  transmission 
of  any  sound  from  the  remotest  quarters  of  Africa, 


PLATO'S  REPUBLIC.  159 

Australia,  and  the  islands  of  the  sea?  He  would 
have  all  functions  executed  by  those  who  were  fitted 
for  them  ;  and  for  what  else  are  we  trying  to-day  in 
our  demands  for  civil  service,  in  our  endeavors  to  get 
the  best  service  of  the  best  citizens?  Plato  would 
have  the  golden  child  placed  among  the  golden 
men  and  women,  though  he  were  born  of  the  very 
lowest  parentage ;  and  what  are  our  schools  for, 
our  open  careers  for  every  son  and  daughter  of 
humanity,  but  to  supply  one  great  bolting  appara- 
tus by  which  at  last  the  great,  the  inventive,  the  skil- 
ful, the  strong  should  find  their  proper  place,  and 
best  minister  to  their  fellow-men?  So  we  might 
say  of  all  the  higher  social  tendencies  at  work  in 
our  community,  that  they  are  seeking  to  accom- 
plish something  in  the  direction  which  the  purest 
transcendental  philosopher  that  has  ever  lived  set 
down  as  the  only  objects  worthy  of  human  pursuit. 
He  distrusted  democratic  rule ;  but  we  see  to-day 
that  the  true  meaning  of  democracy  is  not  a  form  of 
government  external  to  the  people,  separate  from 
them,  like  a  king  or  an  oligarchy,  but  it  is  that  of 
a  whole  people  governing  themselves,  promoting 
their  own  interests,  advancing  their  own  welfare. 
Not  the  selfishness  of  the  few,  not  the  passing  im- 
pulses of  the  many,  can  be  the  permanent  out- 
growth of  this  last  embodiment  of  the  universal 
spirit  in  a  political  State;  but  that  wisdom  which 
is  the  inmost  life  of  humanity  is  to  find  here  its 
abiding  home  in  every  man's  life,  and  every  man's 
daily  work. 


IX. 

ARISTOTLE'S  "  POLITICS." 

ARISTOTLE'S  "  Politics,"  Prof.  R.  T.  Ely,  the  econo- 
mist, has  recently  called  "  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able books  in  the  world's  history.  ...  In  some 
respects,"  he  says,  "  the  most  advanced  political 
economy  is  a  return  to  Aristotle."  A  brief  survey 
of  this  great  work  is,  then,  in  order  in  this  day  of 
"  social  problems." 

Differing  widely  from  Plato's  poetical  dream,  the 
"Politics"  may  be  considered  the  first  great  effort 
in  the  scientific  study  of  society  and  of  the  elements 
of  social  well-being.  Plato  stood  in  an  attitude  of 
antagonism  to  the  Grecian  methods  of  life  and  gov- 
ernment. He  attacked  the  poetry,  the  education, 
and  the  political  notions  of  his  time.  His  ideal 
State  was  based  upon  man's  supposed  nature  and 
the  constitution  of  the  soul  as  reason,  will,  and  appe- 
tite. It  was  a  true  Utopia,  for  there  was  no  place  in 
all  the  world  where  it  could  be  actually  embodied ; 
but  the  "Republic"  presented  an  inspiring  ideal  of 
order,  justice,  and  righteousness  in  human  affairs. 
Aristotle's  ideal  is  no  less  elevated,  but  his  method 
is  entirely  different.  Like  Plato,  he  desires  to  pro- 
mote the  highest  good  of  the  individual  in  the  State; 


ARISTOTLE'S  "POLITICS."  l6l 

but  he  follows  no  d  priori  plan.  He  sets  up  no 
ideal  as  a  necessary  and  universal  pattern,  but  tries 
to  find  a  reason  in  the  nature  of  man  and  the  facts 
of  experience  for  Greek  institutions.  For  the  many 
changes  that  had  occurred  in  the  political  forms  of 
the  Grecian  States  around  him  he  likewise  seeks  a 
law.  He  applies  to  the  best  of  his  ability  the  prin- 
ciples of  common-sense.  He  asks:  What  is  the 
specific  end  of  the  concrete  thing  we  call  the  State? 
What  is  the  actual  nature  of  the  organization  which 
we  call  political  ?  What  is  needed  that  this  organi- 
zation may  most  effectually  accomplish  its  end? 

Aristotle  saw  everywhere  a  process  of  growth. 
The  very  lowest  form  contained,  potentially,  the 
highest  and  best.  Practically,  Aristotle  followed 
the  method  of  evolution.  If  one  wishes  to  know 
the  end  for  which  anything  exists,  he  must  study 
the  concrete  thing  itself.  States,  commonwealths, 
communities,  do  not  have  an  abstract  existence  in 
the  clouds,  —  they  are  realities  of  this  earth.  Es- 
tablished by  human  beings,  they  contain  in  posse 
a  final,  highest,  and  most  perfect  organization.  To 
Aristotle,  the  work  of  political  science  consisted  in 
studying  each  political  phenomenon  as  an  unfold- 
ing of  the  principle  of  life,  a  manifestation  of  what 
Nature  was  after,  a  step  in  the  ascending  series  to 
the  perfect  and  best. 

Yet  such  a  commonwealth  as  the  United  States  of 
America  would  have  violated  all  Aristotle's  canons 
of  the  essential  polity  of  the  best  State.  The  vast 
extent  of  territory ;  the  many  races  of  men  making 


162  ARISTOTLE'S  "POLITICS." 

up  the  body  of  citizens ;  the  conflicting  interests  of 
the  widely  divided  sections ;  the  prevalence  of  oppo- 
site views  of  culture,  religion,  economics,  domestic 
habits,  and  modes  of  life,  —  all  these  features  would 
seem  to  him  contradictory  to  every  principle  of  a 
well-ordered  civil  polity,  fatal  to  permanence,  and 
utterly  incapable  of  promoting  the  ends  which  a 
State  ought  to  have  in  view  as  the  very  object  of 
its  existence ;  namely,  the  virtue,  the  happiness,  the 
moral  and  intellectual  development  of  all  its  citi- 
zens. The  Greek  State  was  everything,  in  fact,  to 
the  individual  citizen.  It  supervised  his  household 
affairs,  his  education,  his  religion,  and  the  thousand 
details  of  his  daily  life.  Its  object  was  to  cultivate 
virtue,  and  it  assigned  to  each  citizen  his  work. 
What  we  leave  to  public  opinion  the  Greek  made  the 
subject  of  law.  In  Aristotle's  view,  the  statesman  is 
the  vital,  spiritual  power  in  the  commonwealth;  the 
State  itself  is  -the  nurse  of  science  and  the  school 
of  philosophy,  —  in  itself  the  one  sufficient  means 
for  attaining  a  good  life.  The  good,  the  perfectly 
rounded  life  is  the  very  end  for  which  the  State 
exists. 

What,  then,  is  Aristotle's  definition  of  a  State? 
It  is  a  whole,  formed  of  parts  which  share  in  a  com- 
mon feeling,  interest,  and  action ;  and  this  whole 
has  been  constituted  for  the  attainment  of  a  com- 
plete and  fully  developed  life  for  all.  This  concep- 
tion is  in  accordance  with  the  ordinary  Greek  view, 
albeit  nobler  and  more  comprehensive.  The  Greek 
citizen  was  essentially  a  part  of  the  city-State  in 


ARISTOTLE'S  "POLITICS."  163 

which  he  was  born  and  had  his  home.1  The  city 
laid  hold  of  the  individual  to  absorb  his  individual 
claims.  The  sphere  of  government  in  modern  times 
has  embraced  chiefly  the  protection  of  life  and 
property.  Politics  has  thus  meant  little  beyond 
practical  arrangements  for  the  punishment  of 
crime,  the  defence  of  personal  liberty,  and  the 
protection  of  vested  interests  in  property.  But 
to  the  Greek  the  State  was  his  religion,  his  cul- 
ture, his  social  club, — not  merely  his  protector 
against  foreign  enemies  and  domestic  injustice.  He 
breathed  and  acted  through  the  organs  which  the 
State  furnished  him.  Beyond  this  corporate  life,  he 
was  an  exile  and  a  vagabond.  Hence,  with  Aristotle 
the  State  must  not  be  too  large  for  a  common  life  to 
be  lived  by  its  citizens.  The  State  must  be  a  unit; 
and  of  this  unit  each  citizen  is  a  component  part. 

The  State,  according  to  the  Aristotelian  idea,  has 
its  origin  in  nature  and  natural  relations.  Nature 
joins  together  the  father,  the  mother,  the  child,  and 
the  slave,  who  constitute  a  family.  Several  families 
constitute  a  village ;  many  villages  constitute  a  State, 
united  together  "  at  first  that  they  may  live,  but  con- 
tinuing united  together  that  they  may  live  happily 
and  well."  Like  every  other  object  in  the  natural 
world,  civil  government  is  a  whole,  and  really  exists 
in  idea  before  it  exists  in  actual  form.  It  is  the 
inherent  power  of  development  that  constitutes  a  par- 
ticular animal :  so  is  it  with  the  State.  The  individ- 

1  The  city  of  Boston  would  form  a  State  many  times  larger  than 
the  largest  Greek  city. 


1 64  ARISTOTLE'S  "POLITICS." 

ual  man  is  not  complete  in  himself,  and  he  bears 
the  same  relation  to  the  State  that  the  individual 
organs  bear  to  the  entire  human  body.  Not  to  need 
the  State  as  a  complement  to  one's  limited  self  is  to 
be  either  a  monster  or  a  god.  Man  perfected  by  so- 
ciety is  the  most  excellent  of  all  living  beings ;  but 
given  up  to  selfish  appetite,  he  is  the  worst.  There- 
fore, as  in  determining  the  true  nature  of  any  other 
species  we  take  the  most  perfect  specimen  in  its 
highest  state  of  development,  so  we  should  take 
man  in  his  highest  condition  of  social  development, 
unfolding  fully  his  noblest  powers  and  his  most 
humane  characteristics. 

How  different  is  the  theory  of  Rousseau,  which 
stimulated  the  imagination  and  fired  the  heart  of  the 
civilized  world  in  those  days  of  revolutionary  fervor 
and  philosophic  zeal,  when  civilization  was  repre- 
sented as  the  curse  of  human  society,  and  a  re- 
turn to  natural  conditions  was  considered  the  only 
way  to  make  progress  in  virtue !  How  different  is 
the  "  Leviathan  "  of  Hobbes,  the  monster  from  whom 
society  had  its  first  spring  and  its  primal  origin, — 
fear,  that  arose  from  mutual  hate  and  internecine 
war !  In  Aristotle's  philosophic  view,  the  State  is 
the  natural  outgrowth  of  human  qualities  and  ten- 
dencies ;  and  it  is  as  congenial  to  the  nature  of  man 
to  live  in  society  as  it  is  for  the  plant  to  send  its 
rootlets  down  into  the  soil,  its  stem  up  into  the  air, 
and  to  scatter  its  seed  on  the  wind.  The  families 
of  men  uniting  in  a  social  union  obey  a  divine  in- 
stinct, even  as  the  trees  of  the  forest  do  when  their 


ARISTOTLE'S  "POLITICS."  165 

seed  is  planted  in  congenial  soil,  or  the  honey-bees 
when  they  construct  their  cells.  How  different  is 
the  theory  of  an  original  compact  which  Locke 
enunciates  as  the  origin  of  government!  "The  ori- 
ginal compact,  which  begins  and  actually  consti- 
tutes any  political  society,"  he  says,  "  is  nothing  but 
the  consent  of  any  number  of  freemen  capable  of 
a  majority  to  unite  and  to  incorporate  into  such 
a  society  ;  and  this  is  that,  and  that  only,  which 
could  give  beginning  to  any  lawful  government  in 
the  world."  This  theory  served  its  purpose  against 
the  theory  of  the  original  and  divine  right  of  kings ; 
but  for  real  philosophical  comprehension  of  the 
origin  of  government,  Aristotle's  view  is  infinitely 
superior:  "  As  we  make  use  of  our  bodily  members 
before  we  understand  the  end  and  purpose  of  this 
exercise,  so  it  is  by  nature  itself  that  we  are  bound 
together  and  associated  in  political  society." 

Hence  the  State  grows  up  naturally,  man  being 
by  his  very  nature  a  political  animal.  As  Homer 
says,  "  He  that  hath  no  tribe,  or  state,  or  home,  is 
as  solitary  as  a  bird  of  prey."  Man  is  the  only  ani- 
mal that  has  reason,  and  so  has  language,  which  is 
not  merely  an  expression  of  pleasure  and  pain,  but 
of  the  just  and  the  unjust.  The  impulse  toward  as- 
sociation is  thus  universal  and  natural.  By  carrying 
out  this  impulse  in  the  formation  of  the  State,  man 
becomes  the  most  excellent  of  living  beings  instead 
of  the  most  helpless  and  the  worst.  He  embodies  in 
the  State  justice,  which  is  the  rule  of  social  order. 

The  family,  according  to  Aristotle,  is  the  unit  of 


1 66  ARISTOTLE'S  "POLITICS." 

social  life ;  and  in  it  man  has  three  relations,  —  hus- 
band, father,  and  master.  Here  the  philosopher 
runs  counter  to  our  modern  ideas  of  the  injustice  of 
slavery.  He  discusses  the  matter,  indeed ;  for  even 
in  his  day  some  had  maintained  that  slavery  was 
unjust.  But  Aristotle  maintains  that  they  are  slaves 
by  nature  who  have  strength  of  body  without  ability 
to  take  care  of  themselves ;  and  that  to  them  a  mas- 
ter is  a  benefit,  —  and  not  only  to  them,  but  to  the 
community  also.  But  the  master  should  be  as  well 
fitted  for  ruling  as  the  slave  for  obeying  ;  then  both 
will  be  profited.  No  Greek,  again,  should  be  en- 
slaved, even  if  taken  captive  in  war.  This  opinion 
was  contrary  to  the  universal  custom  of  the  age; 
for  the  entire  population  of  Hellenic  cities,  when 
conquered,  was  often  reduced  to  slavery.  Aristotle 
further  maintains  that  whenever  a  slave  plainly 
shows  himself  qualified  for  freedom,  he  should  be 
set  free.  Had  the  Stagirite  lived  a  few  generations 
later,  he  would  have  seen  thousands  of  his  Greek 
countrymen  —  among  them  men  of  culture  and  of 
high  intelligence,  scholars  and  philosophers  —  held 
as  slaves  in  the  households  of  the  rude  Romans, 
who  doubtless  thought  that  they  were  doing  a  ser- 
vice to  the  commonwealth,  as  well  as  to  themselves, 
by  keeping  the  effeminate  Greeks  closely  subjected 
to  their  own  stronger  will  and  convenience.  The 
doctrine  that  outsiders  and  barbarians  can  justly  be 
enslaved  would  perhaps  have  assumed  a  different 
aspect  to  Aristotle,  had  he  known  that  the  barbarian 
would  put  his  own  interpretation  upon  the  principle 
that  might  is  the  law  of  right. 


ARISTOTLE'S  "POLITICS."  167 

But  the  slowness  of  the  advance  of  humanity  in 
social  justice  can  be  estimated  from  the  fact  that 
even  Locke  could  write,  as  late  as  the  seven- 
teenth century,  "  There  is  another  sort  of  servants, 
which  by  a  peculiar  name  we  call  slaves,  who,  being 
captives  taken  in  a  just  war,  are  by  the  rights  of 
nature  subjected  to  the  absolute  dominion  and  ar- 
bitrary power  of  their  masters.  These  men  having, 
as  I  say,  forfeited  their  life,  and  with  it  their  liber- 
ties, and  lost  their  estates,  and  being  in  a  state  of 
slavery,  not  capable  of  any  property,  cannot  in  that 
state  be  considered  as  any  part  of  civil  society."1 
To  Aristotle,  we  should  remember,  a  slave  was  not 
an  end  in  himself,  but  an  instrument  to  carry  out 
the  purposes  of  his  master,  — a  part  of  his  master, 
though  a  separable  part. 

The  city-state,  then,  is  a  whole,  an  integral  unit, 
formed  by  the  congregation  of  villages  for  the  at- 
tainment of  a  complete  life  of  virtue,  and  for  the 
development  of  all  the  human  activities.  To  dis- 
cover the  best  organization  of  this  whole  is  the  work 
of  political  science.  A  study  of  the  course  of  his- 
torical development  is  not  the  only  need,  for  the  his- 
torical process  may  have  been  warped  and  distorted. 
These  distortions,  as  well  as  all  the  other  phenomena, 
must  be  tested  by  the  principles  of  ethics.  The 
inquiry  thus  arises,  What  constitution  of  the  State 
is  most  favorable  to  virtue  in  the  citizen  and  to  the 
common  good?  To  answer  this  question  wisely, 
Aristotle  investigates  the  economical  and  social 
phenomena  which  result  from  different  kinds  of 
1  Locke's  Works,  ii.  181. 


1 68  ARISTOTLE'S  "POLITICS." 

government,  the  character  of  the  citizens,  the  fea- 
tures of  the  territory,  the  different  ways  of  getting 
wealth  ;  and  he  considers  the  adaptation  of  proposed 
changes  to  the  circumstances  of  the  people.  Plato 
had  sought  to  establish  an  ideal  commonwealth, 
which  by  its  very  construction  should  be  a  model 
State,  wherein  all  the  variable  elements  of  hu- 
man nature  should  be  constrained  to  harmonious 
adjustment.  Aristotle  shows  what  elements  are 
necessary  to  make  the  State  what  it  should  be  to 
accomplish  its  natural  results.  He  is  fully  aware 
that  the  "  best  State  "  will  be  a  rare  thing  in  the 
world's  history;  and  so  he  occupies  himself  often 
with  practical  suggestions  on  the  reform  of  abuses, 
the  remedies  for  evils,  and  the  beneficial  changes 
that  may  be  made  in  actual  forms  of  government. 

The  citizens  of  Aristotle's  "  best  State  "  are  those 
only  who  have  undergone  a  special  training,  who 
have  ample  leisure  for  gymnastics,  for  practice  in 
arms,  and  for  the  pursuit  of  philosophy  and  noble 
learning.  But  all  those  who  work  for  pay  in  any 
industrial  pursuit  are  excluded  from  the  right  to 
rule  or  to  choose  their  rulers.  In  the  democratic 
States  of  Greece  the  laborers  and  artisans  were 
ranked  as  citizens,  and  they  enjoyed  equal  rights  as 
voters  with  the  noblest  and  the  richest.  But  in 
Sparta  and  some  other  States,  where  "  useful  and 
necessary  work  "  was  performed  by  slaves,  the  in- 
dustrial life  virtually  excluded  one  from  all  liberal 
pursuits,  such  as  those  of  the  soldier,  the  statesman, 
and  the  philosopher.  Even  agriculture  lay  under 


ARISTOTLE'S  "POLITICS."  169 

the  ban  of  condemnation,  as  it  allowed  only  talk  of 
crops  and  bullocks.  The  tradesman  and  the  mer- 
chant were  also  regarded  as  pursuing  sordid  and 
mercenary  trades.  All  useful  occupations  per- 
formed for  pay  were  deemed  servile  and  ignoble. 
Even  the  teacher  of  philosophy  who  taught  for 
regular  pay  was  the  object  of  Plato's  bitterest 
scorn.  When  to-day  we  hear  the  system  of  wages 
denounced  by  laborers  as  nothing  but  slavery,  it 
will  remind  us  of  the  advance  made  toward  giv- 
ing what  Aristotle  called  the  useful  and  illiberal  pur- 
suits of  life  a  recognition  in  the  commonweal. 

Aristotle's  State,  as  a  natural  whole  made  up  of 
parts,  is  subject  to  the  laws  of  every  structure  of  a 
like  constitution.  In  this  whole  made  up  of  many 
members,  some  must  rule  and  others  must  be  ruled. 
There  is  in  the  State  a  natural  inequality  among  the 
different  elements.  As  in  every  object  made  up  of 
parts  some  are  only  means  subservient  to  a  higher 
end,  so  it  is  in  the  State.  The  tools  with  which  a 
house  is  built  are  no  part  of  the  house  itself.  Every 
animal  has  parts  which  are  useful  only  for  certain 
ancillary  purposes,  and  these  must  be  held  strictly 
to  their 'subordinate  office.  The  lower  half  of  the 
body  exists  for  the  upper;  and  throughout  all 
Nature  there  is,  as  in  the  egg,  that  which  is  meant 
to  grow,  and  that  also  which  is  meant  to  promote 
growth.  The  same  principles  apply  in  the  State  that 
we  see  rule  in  every  living  organism  in  the  natural 
world.  Shakspeare's  social  view  is  similar.  The 
wise  Ulysses,  in  "Troilus  and  Cressida,"  says:  — 


1 70  ARISTOTLE'S  "POLITICS.'' 

"  How  could  communities,  .  .  . 
But  by  degrees,  stand  in  authentic  place  ? 
Take  but  degree  away,  untune  that  string, 
And,  hark,  what  discord  follows  !  each  thing  meets 
In  mere  oppugnancy.  .  .  . 
Strength  should  be  lord  of  imbecility, 
And  the  rude  son  should  strike  his  father  dead. 
Force  should  be  right.  .  .  . 
Then  everything  includes  itself  in  power, 
Power  into  will,  will  into  appetite ; 
And  appetite,  a  universal  wolf, 
So  doubly  seconded  with  will  and  power, 
Must  make,  perforce,  a  Universal  prey, 
And,  last,  eat  up  himself.  " 

The  science  of  Aristotle  sees  the  same  law  of 
order,  degree,  and  subordinated  powers  and  capaci- 
ties in  every  living  organism,  whether  in  the  natural 
or  the  social  world.  He  gives  the  beehive  as  a 
special  example  in  his  natural  history  of  animals. 
Shakspeare  has  put  the  same  comparison  into  the 
mouth  of  the  politic  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  in 
"Henry  V.":- 

"  Therefore  doth  Heaven  divide 
The  state  of  man  in  divers  functions, 
Setting  endeavor  in  continual  motion  ; 
To  which  is  fixed,  as  an  aim  or  butt, 
Obedience  :  for  so  work  the  honey-bees, 
Creatures  that  by  a  rule  in  Nature  teach 
The  act  of  order  to  a  peopled  kingdom." 

No  better  summary  than  this  could  be  given  of 
Aristotle's  best  form  of  State  organization. 

To  Aristotle  the  whole  modern  system  of  credit, 


AK/STOTLE'S  "  POLITICS!'  1 71 

interest,  monetary  exchange,  based  upon  the  infinite 
complexity  and  variety  of  claims  involved,  is  wrong. 
He  holds  that  it  leads  to  the  unbounded  acquisi- 
tion of  wealth,  and  causes  the  means  of  living  to 
be  mistaken  for  the  end.  To  buy  and  sell  merely 
for  profit  is  a  perversion  of  trade,  which  should 
be  carried  on  only  to  satisfy  the  needs  of  existence. 
To  make  money  produce  money  is  unnatural.  As 
Shakspeare  expresses  it,  to  take  interest  is  to 
make  barren  metal  breed  metal.  Aristotle  would 
have  every  commercial  transaction  a  direct  ex- 
change of  social  services.  But  strange  are  the 
standards  of  right  and  wrong,  of  justice  and  injus- 
tice, in  every  age!  Just  as  his  commonwealth,  if  it 
wanted  fish,  could  catch  them  from  the  sea ;  or  if 
it  needed  game,  could  hunt  wild  animals  on  land, 
so  if  it  lacked  slaves,  it  could  make  war  for  them 
upon  some  weak  and  alien  nation.  Money  may 
not  breed  money,  but  slaves  may  breed  slaves ! 

The  citizens  of  Aristotle's  State  are  to  have,  as 
far  as  possible,  a  common  interest,  a  common  aim, 
and  a  common  enjoyment  of  the  means  of  educa- 
tion and  amusement  provided  by  the  powers  that 
be.  But  he  severely  criticises  Plato's  scheme  of 
community  of  property  and  community  of  offspring. 
Plato  would  abolish  the  idea  of  mine  and  thine. 
To  be  free  from  the  quarrels  caused  by  property 
and  individual  relationships,  he  would  do  away  with 
them  altogether.  Aristotle  uses  the  same  valid 
arguments  that  we  employ  to-day.  The  difficulties 
of  living  in  harmony  where  there,  is  no  individual 


1/2  ARISTOTLE'S  "POLITICS:' 

property,  he  says,  are  very  great.  Where  colonies 
are  settled  with  a  common  ownership  of  property, 
there  are  continual  disputes  about  the  most  trifling 
matters.  There  are  disputes  also  as  to  the  labor  al- 
lotted and  the  compensation  received ;  complaints, 
criminations,  and  recriminations,  and  even  blows, 
abound.  If  all  things  are  common,  no  one  can 
give  assistance  to  his  friend  or  help  to  the  needy; 
no  one  can  be  generous,  no  one  can  be  grateful, 
no  one  self-relying.  If  there  were  no  individual 
property,  some  evils  would  be  removed,  but  more 
evils  would  be  brought  into  existence;  life  would 
lose  its  zest,  and  unity  would  become  a  tiresome 
monotony.  With  the  development  of  virtue  and 
noble  living,  all  the  unity  that  is  desirable  will  be 
brought  about.  With  community  of  property,  in- 
dustry would  lack  much  of  its  present  stimulus, 
and  not  a  few  of  the  real  pleasures  of  life  would 
be  wanting;  for  many  permanent  and  universal 
tendencies  of  human  nature  would  then  be  without 
proper  satisfaction. 

But  Aristotle,  the  opponent  of  common  property, 
is  also  opposed  to  the  unlimited  acquisition  of 
either  wealth  or  land.  He  sees  the  evils  of  the 
possession  of  superfluous  riches,  and  seeks  to  guard 
against  them  by  the  moral  training  of  the  citizens 
and  the  limitation  of  buying  and  selling  to  real 
exchanges  of  property  for  actual  use.  To  accumu- 
late for  the  sake  of  accumulation  is  sordid  and 
base,  a  habit  unworthy  of  him  who  would  live  no- 
bly and  so  as  to  benefit  the  State.  Only  those 


ARISTO TLE  'S  "  POLITICS."  1 73 

ends  are  to  be  pursued  which  contribute  to  a  full  and 
perfect  life. 

Upon  the  relation  of  women  to  the  State,  Aris- 
totle scarcely  touches.  Woman  is  a  part  of  the 
household,  and  receives  no  particular  consideration. 
Plato  would  emancipate  her  from  her  unnatural 
seclusion,  and  make  her  the  equal  of  man  in  the 
social  organization ;  but  Aristotle  looks  upon  her 
as  the  inferior  of  man,  like  the  child  and  the  slave : 
she  is  to  form  a  part  of  the  family,  whose  head  and 
natural  king  is  the  husband,  father,  and  master. 
Men  are  not  to  marry  until  they  are  thirty-seven 
years  of  age,  or  women  until  they  are  eighteen: 
thus  there  is  secured  for  the  inexperienced  maiden, 
as  far  as  possible,  a  grave  and  experienced  coun- 
sellor and  friend,  and  the  father  will  not  be  too  near 
of  an  age  with  the  children,  who  should  entertain 
for  him  a  certain  respect  and  reverence.  But  was 
not  William  von  Humboldt  nearer  the  truth,  —  that 
is,  to  nature  and  common-sense,  —  when  he  said : 
"  The  freshness  of  youth  is  the  true  foundation  for 
a  happy  marriage.  I  would  not  for  an  instant  say 
that  the  happiness  of  marriage  ends  with  youth ; 
but  I  do  say  that  husband  and  wife  should  carry 
into  later  life  the  memory  of  years  enjoyed  together, 
if  their  happiness  is  not  to  lose  the  distinguishing 
characteristic  of  wedded  bliss."  Yet  if  Aristotle 
wished  to  make  sure  of  the  wife's  silence  before 
the  husband,  he  certainly  was  wise  to  make  the 
husband  venerable.  Comte  said  that  the  function 
of  the  household  is  to  cultivate  to  the  highest 


174  ARISTOTLE'S  "POLITICS." 

point  the  influence  of  woman  over  man;  but  in 
Aristotle's  view  the  household  is  only  a  factor  in 
the  organization  of  the  State  which  supervises  it. 
He  therefore  permitted  many  things,  such  as  checks 
against  over-population,  which  we  should  consider 
cruel  and  inhuman. 

On  the  different  forms  of  State  constitutions, 
which  Aristotle  treats  at  great  length,1  we  need  not 
dwell.  In  the  small  area  of  Hellenic  territory  all 
kinds  of  government  were  to  be  found,  and  the  cities 
often  changed  rapidly  from  one  form  to  another. 
Aristotle  himself  prefers  the  rule  of  one  royal  head, 
if  that  head  be  gifted  with  a  true  genius  for  ruling,  and 
endowed  with  all  the  virtues  that  will  serve  to  make 
the  happiness  of  the  people  the  sole  end  in  view. 
But  how  can  such  a  phoenix  be  assured?  Next  to 
such  a  rare  and  almost  impossible  phenomenon,  the 
best  government  is  a  true  aristocracy,  —  a  govern- 
ment of  the  best,  selected  from  a  body  of  citizens 
instructed  in  the  art  of  ruling ;  men  of  education 
and  experience.  A  democracy  is  to  Aristotle  the 
worst  form  of  government.  This  was  natural,  as 
there  was  no  place  in  his  scheme  for  the  education 
of  the  great  body  of  the  people. 

This  vast  American  democracy  of  ours,  —  this 
graded  system  of  town,  city,  county,  State,  and  na- 
tion, —  presents  a  grand  whole,  with  such  a  subor- 
dination and  combination  of  parts  that  Aristotle's 
provisions  for  attaining  political  ends  seem  insig- 

1  His  exposition  of  the  Constitution  of  Athens  has  been  the 
latest  discovery  to  interest  the  learned  world. 


ARISTOTLE 'S  "POLITICS."  175 

nificant  in  comparison.  To-day  the  sex  he  set 
aside  as  not  capable  of  citizenship  presses  forward 
for  complete  recognition ;  and  many  women  labor 
zealously  for  a  State  looking  to  the  highest  good 
of  all  the  people,  and  administered  by  all  the  peo- 
ple. Aristotle  feared  a  State  too  large  and  a  peo- 
ple too  numerous.  He  did  not  dream  that  vast 
diversity  of  interests,  infinite  variety  of  produc- 
tions, complexity  of  institutions,  opposite  systems 
of  religion,  varied  soil  and  climate,  different  ideals 
held  by  many  classes  of  society,  and  employ- 
ments and  methods  of  living  endlessly  varied, — 
that  all  these  could  work  together  to  secure 
permanence  and  stability  in  the  constitution  of 
the  State. 

Yet  if  we  look  at  the  American  situation  in  an- 
other light,  the  remotest  parts  of  our  country  are 
not  much  farther  apart  than  were  the  remotest  cities 
of  Greece,  thanks  to  the  railway,  the  telephone, 
and  the  telegraph.  Moreover,  the  means  of  educa- 
tion have  in  our  case  been  infinitely  multiplied  in 
schools,  churches,  and  the  products  of  the  printing- 
press.  But  though  thus  aided  by  invention  and 
by  wide-spread  knowledge  in  preserving  alive  an 
enormous  State,  we  have  —  even  more  than  the 
Greeks  had  —  to  rely  on  intelligence,  courage, 
and  faith  to  overcome  the  difficulties  that  con- 
front us. 

At  the  present  time  we  have  followers  of  Aris- 
totle and  followers  of  Plato,  —  men  who  uncon- 
sciously range  themselves  among  the  scientific 


176  ARISTOTLE'S  "POLITICS? 

students  of  natural  and  social  phenomena,  and 
men  who  construct  castles  in  the  air,  cities  in 
the  clouds,  and  believe  in  Utopian  ideals,  the 
more  fervently  the  more  impracticable  they  ap- 
pear. Plato  depreciated  natural  science  and  the 
study  of  physical  objects,  giving  it  credit  only  as 
a  pleasant  pastime,  "  a  means  of  pleasure  which 
did  not  bring  repentance  with  it."  This  world 
was  but  the  spring-board  from  which  the  soul 
was  to  make  its  bound  into  the  infinite,  the  per- 
manent, the  ideal,  the  divine.  He  knew  nothing  of 
our  modern  reverent  study  of  Nature ;  for  in  natu- 
ral existences  was  the  cause  of  all  evil,  and  the  realm 
of  ideas  was  to  him  the  only  realm  of  reality.  The 
temporary  and  changing  phenomena  of  life  he 
deemed  unworthy  of  philosophic  thought,  and  the 
real  statesman  was  he  who  could  discern  essential 
causes,  and  see  what  was,  in  itself  and  eternally, 
noble  and  just.  Philosophers,  or  men  of  insight 
into  divine  realities,  were  of  necessity  the  rulers  in 
Plato's  ideal  commonwealth. 

The  method  of  the  "  Politics  "  was  just  the  oppo- 
site from  this ;  for  Aristotle  reverenced  the  facts  of 
Nature,  and  from  these  unfolded  the  general  law. 
Plato,  starting  from  the  realm  of  ideas,  looked  upon 
every  object  of  sense  as  a  declension  from  the  divine 
order,  as  a  loss  of  reality,  an  immersion  in  the 
world  of  matter  and  of  sense,  a  descent  from  eter- 
nal and  permanent  goodness  and  truth.  To  study 
the  actual  development  of  institutions,  and  from 
various  forms  of  existing  States  to  deduce  the 


ARISTOTLE'S  "POLITICS." 

laws  of  political  science,  was  entirely  counter  to 
his  method  of  philosophizing.  All  past  and 
present  State-institutions  were  monstrous  and  ab- 
normal phenomena,  violations  of  the  divine  ideas 
of  righteousness  and  justice,  and  at  the  best  could 
be  only  warnings,  —  buoys  as  it  were,  to  show  the 
limits  of  the  channel  or  the  sunken  reefs.  The 
"  Politics,"  on  the  contrary,  has  for  its  main  thesis 
the  identification  of  the  State  and  individual  well- 
being.  The  end  for  which  man  exists  is  not  in 
himself,  but  in  that  city-State  of  which  he  makes 
a  part.  As  in  the  animal  every  member  and  limb 
is  subordinate  to  the  organization  as  a  whole,  and 
as  the  plan  of  this  whole  gives  the  normal  status 
or  form  which  each  and  every  part  must  assume, 
—  so  in  the  social  organism,  or  State,  the  good 
or  well-being  of  the  whole  constitutes  the  norm, 
or  rule,  to  which  every  individual  part  must  con- 
form itself,  if  there  is  to  be  the  highest  develop- 
ment. And  with  Aristotle  this  may  be  said  to 
constitute  the  absolute  ethics;  namely,  the  iden- 
tification of  the  individual  with  the  State. 

This  would  seem,  then,  to  be  no  new  doctrine; 
yet  this  is  claimed  as  something  peculiar  to  the 
modern  development  of  socialistic  theories.  I  turn 
to  a  book  called  the  "  Ethics  of  Socialism,"  and 
there  I  read  the  following :  — 

"  At  last,  with  the  dawn  of  a  new  economic  era,  —  the 
era  of  social  production  for  social  uses,  —  we  shall  have  also 
the  dawn  of  a  new  Ethic ;  an  Ethic  whose  ideal  is  neither 
personal  holiness  nor  personal  interest,  but  social  happi- 

12 


178  ARISTOTLE'S  "POLITICS." 

ness,  for  which  the  perfect  individual  will  ever  be  sub- 
ordinate to  the  perfect  society.  The  test  of  personal  char- 
acter will  here  be  the  possession  of  social  qualities  and,  the 
zeal  for  positive  and  definite  social  ends.  This  may  be 
termed  in  a  sense  an  absolute  Ethic.  In  this  new  con- 
ception of  duty  the  individual  consciously  subordinates 
himself  to  the  community.  The  separation  of  ethics 
from  politics,  and  of  both  from  religion,  is  finally  abol- 
ished. In  socialism,  ethics  become  political,  and  poli- 
tics become  ethical ;  while  religion  means  but  the  higher 
and  more  far-reaching  aspect  of  that  ethical  sense  of  ob- 
ligation, duty,  fraternity,  which  is  the  ultimate  bond  of 
every-day  society." 

Could  a  better  statement  be  made  of  Aristotle's 
view  of  the  end  and  aim  of  social  organization?  It 
adds  nothing  to  it.  To  be  sure,  Aristotle  had  a 
different  view  of  what  constitutes  fraternity;  but 
this  does  not  affect  the  moral  purpose  and  the 
philosophic  groundwork  of  his  social  and  political 
theory. 

This,  then,  is  the  new  Ethic,  this  the  supreme 
and  satisfying  ideal  for  which  humanity  is  to  work! 
The  struggles  of  the  human  heart  for  these  two 
thousand  years ;  the  aspirations  for  a  divine  life 
and  for  a  destiny  beyond  time  and  sense;  the 
vision  of  immortality;  the  communion  with  the 
great  and  good  of  all  ages ;  the  rising  into  higher 
states  of  loving,  disinterested  service;  the  opening 
vistas  of  progressive  knowledge,  and  of  unfolding 
states  and  modes  of  being,  —  all  this  is  to  be  abol- 
ished, and  that  which  constitutes  "  the  bond  of 


ARISTOTLE'S  "POLITICS."  179 

every-day  society  "  is  to  be  the  embodiment  of  all 
striving,  the  all-sufficient  aim  of  the  denizens  of  this 
wonderful  universe !  Aristotle  expressed  the  high- 
est conception  of  that  Greek  civilization ;  but  there 
is  now  a  higher;  and  this  higher  conception  is  not 
abandoned,  though  it  may  seem  lost  in  the  transition 
from  a  lower  to  a  higher  form.  "  Attacks  on  reli- 
gion," as  Benjamin  Constant  well  says, "  do  not  mean 
that  mankind  is  ready  to  say  good-by  to  religion, 
but  simply  that  its  popular  forms  no  longer  fit  the 
needs  of  the  souls  which  have  outgrown  them  and 
desire  something  purer  and  larger." 

There  is  a  higher  view  of  man  in  his  political  and 
social  destiny  than  either  Plato  or  Aristotle  saw,  — 
a  commonwealth  of  humanity  whose  foundation  is 
in  the  earth,  but  whose  superstructure  is  in  the 
realm  of  eternal  and  spiritual  ideas;  and  we  are 
made  citizens  of  that  commonwealth,  not  by  any 
written  constitution  or  any  geographical  boundaries, 
but  by  oneness  of  spirit,  and  by  sympathy  with 
every  effort  for  the  well-being  of  man. 


X. 


SOCIAL    PROGRESS. 

PROGRESS  in  the  animal  world  consists  in  manifes- 
tation of  more  highly  organized  forms  of  life,  from 
the  simplest  cell  to  the  most  wonderful  and  compact 
human  brain.  Social  progress  is  the  advance  from 
the  wandering  savage,  sufficient  for  his  own  few  in- 
dividual needs,  to  the  citizen  of  to-day,  dependent 
every  moment  on  the  ministration  of  his  fellows  in 
a  thousand  ways  for  comfort  and  even  life.  At 
every  stage  we  see  that  society  becomes  a  more 
highly  organized  form  of  life,  each  part  more  de- 
pendent, each  nerve  more  sensitive,  each  remotest 
organ  more  fully  ministrant  to  the  needs  and  well- 
being  of  the  whole,  —  from  the  bald  monotony  of 
the  old  village  community,  to  the  boiling  stir  and 
lively  commotion  of  the  country  of  the  telegraph, 
the  railway,  and  the  daily  newspaper. 

This  social  progress  has  been  in  the  direction  of 
the  organization  of  industry,  the  application  of  mind 
to  all  the  various  employments,  occupations,  and 
comforts  of  life.  Where  all  work  is  performed  by 
slaves,  what  object  in  lessening  their  toils,  or  mak- 
ing efforts  to  increase  their  leisure?  The  wisest  of 
the  ancients  could  see  no  other  way  than  the  slavery 


SOCIAL    PROGRESS.  l8l 

of  the  many  in  order  that  the  few  might  have  lei- 
sure for  culture  and  the  means  of  citizenship.  The 
slow  centuries  have  evolved  the  true  idea  of  man- 
hood, and  on  it,  as  on  an  eternal  foundation,  rests 
our  social  as  well  as  our  political  superstructure. 

The  wonderful  simplicity  of  those  arrangements 
by  which  human  progress  is  promoted  escapes  our 
notice,  and  therefore  it  may  be  well  to  look  more 
minutely  at  what  takes  place  every  moment,  and  is 
more  truly  miraculous  than  if  man's  food  were 
brought  to  him  every  day  and  laid  at  his  feet  by 
some  fowl  of  the  air  or  some  beast  of  the  field.  No 
delicate  piece  of  machinery  ever  devised  by  man  is 
so  delicate,  so  complex,  so  intricately  involved  in 
its  parts  as  this  living  machine  which  we  call  so- 
ciety, the  body  politic,  the  social  organization,  the 
modern  democratic  State. 

How  are  such  results  secured  as  we  witness  every 
moment,  and  secured  so  universally  that  we  do  not 
take  thought  of  them,  any  more  than  we  do  of  our 
breathing,  of  our  walking,  of  our  ordinary  use  of 
speech?  Think  how  many  innumerable  services 
are  combined  in  order  to  clothe  any  average  citizen 
of  the  millions  of  our  people !  The  cotton,  silk, 
flax,  wool,  and  leather,  coming  from  every  quarter 
of  the  world,  have  passed  through  how  many  hands, 
how  many  changes,  how  many  processes  of  produc- 
tion, manufacture,  and  distribution  !  The  imagina- 
tion flags  before  this  infinite  complexity  of  labors, 
inventions,  industries,  and  trades.  Look  upon  a 
table  set  out  for  the  commonest  meal,  and  reflect 


1 82  SOCIAL  PROGRESS. 

what  generations  of  men  have  conspired  to  clear, 
defend,  and  till  the  land;  to  plant,  reap,  grind,  and 
prepare  the  grain ;  how  many  men  have  delved  in 
mines,  how  many  labored  to  perfect  machines; 
and  what  forces  of  air,  water,  and  steam  have  been 
brought  into  play  before  that  simple  loaf  of  bread 
was  placed  upon  the  table ;  —  take  in  all  this,  and 
pass  over  then  as  commonplace  and  insignificant, 
if  you  can,  that  wonderful  system  of  social  arrange- 
ments by  which,  for  a  trifle  on  your  part,  you  can 
be  put  into  possession  not  only  of  that  loaf  of  bread, 
but  of  a  vast  variety  of  products  which  by  your 
own  individual  efforts  you  never  could  have  earned 
in  thousands  of  years,  though  you  had  a  hundred 
contriving  heads  and  a  hundred  skilful  hands.  It 
is  the  conspiring  labor  of  the  human  race  that 
has  built  our  houses,  ordained  justice,  established 
schools,  and  secured  the  means  of  material,  intel- 
lectual, and  spiritual  good,  —  more,  infinitely  more, 
than  the  wisest,  the  strongest,  could  ever  obtain  by 
his  own  individual  labor  and  skill.  Yet  each  one, 
by  doing  his  daily  work,  becomes  a  share-holder 
in  this  vast  company.  With  his  day's  work  he  pays 
his  part  of  the  debt  to  the  human  race.  Is  there 
no  harmonious  working  in  the  laws  by  which  so 
wonderful  a  result  is  brought  about? 

Reflect  what  a  triumph  of  commissariat  ability  is 
involved  in  supplying  a  few  hundred  soldiers  with 
what  is  necessary  to  eat  and  drink  for  a  few  days. 
Still  more,  consider  how  the  supplies  of  every  town 
and  city  seem  to  take  care  of  themselves.  Four 


SOCIAL  PROGRESS.  183 

millions  of  people  in  London  are  daily  fed,  and  what 
organized  corps  of  planners,  what  human  foresight 
and  supervision,  could  accomplish  this  result  which 
comes  so  easily  and  so  regularly  from  so  many  chan- 
nels, and  with  such  incredible  labors  by  land  and  by 
sea,  by  lane  and  by  highway,  by  railroad  and  by 
river !  And  each  one  is  benefited  in  the  same  ratio 
of  an  infinity  of  services  from  others  over  and  above 
what  he  himself  can  furnish.  Is  there  not  something 
wonderful  in  that  system  of  economic  laws  by  which 
society  is  established  and  kept  together,  —  by  which 
services  are  rendered,  exchanges  effected,  and 
needed  products  furnished  for  the  social  well-being 
of  the  race?  Is  this  equilibrium  of  forces,  this  call- 
ing forth  of  efforts,  this  restraining  of  excesses,  this 
remedying  of  deficiencies,  this  universal  supplying 
of  needs,  —  is  this  a  trifling  affair? 

Each  man's  labor  does  seem  so  small  an  affair ! 
He  ploughs  a  few  acres,  cuts  a  few  soles  or  uppers, 
fashions  a  few  pin-heads  or  points,  digs  a  little  lead 
or  iron  or  coal  out  of  the  rock,  enters  a  few  figures 
in  a  ledger,  drives  a  few  nails,  sets  up  a  few  types, — 
and  what  does  his  work  amount  to?  If  he  look  at 
the  sum-total  of  that  alone,  reckoned  up  in  its  soli- 
tary bigness,  he  feels  small  enough.  But  it  does 
not  stand  alone;  it  has  relations  with  every  other 
man's  work,  and  every  other  man's  work  with  it.  It 
is  an  essential  part  of  the  grand  result ;  it  gives  him 
a  share  in  the  work  of  all  other  men.  The  race  is  at 
work  to  supply  each  one's  special  need.  A  travel- 
ler once  said  of  London,  that  "  he  believed  if  you 


1 84  SOCIAL   PROGRESS. 

had  a  hole  between  the  third  and  fourth  upper  molar 
of  the  left  jaw,  and  had  reason  to  think  that  a  tooth- 
pick of  nickel  cut  with  cycloidal  lines,  and  curved 
on  the  pattern  of  the  lines  of  the- pillars  of  the  Par- 
thenon, was  necessary  for  it,  and  went  into  a  tooth- 
pick shop  and  asked  for  it,  you  would  find  that  that 
particular  thing  had  been  provided  for  an  emer- 
gency just  like  yours,  and  that  a  stock  was  kept 
with  a  view  to  future  necessities." 

You  then  are  at  work  to  supply  some  want ;  and 
your  neighbor,  if  he  is  an  honest  man,  is  also  at 
work  to  supply  your  want  and  that  of  other  people 
besides.  Show  your  title  to  any  service,  and  you 
can  get  it.  What  is  this  title  or  certificate?  Money. 
A  dollar,  say,  stands  for  so  much  service  to  be  ren- 
dered to  you  by  the  human  race;  it  stands  for  so 
much  service  of  a  particular  kind  rendered  by  you, 
if  you  worked  for  it,  —  by  your  ancestors,  if  you  in- 
herited it.  You  have  this  ticket :  what  will  you  take 
it  out  in?  One  man  in  land,  another  in  books; 
one  in  a  house,  another  in  fancy  goods  of  various 
kinds ;  one  in  eatables,  another  in  drinkables,  —  until 
the  ticket  is  punched  out  in  all  its  values.  One 
man  says,  perhaps,  "  I  will  not  present  my  certifi- 
cate just  now;  I  will  postpone  it  for  a  month  or  a 
year.  You,  neighbor,  may  use  it,  and  get  such  ser- 
vice as  you  can  out  of  it,  paying  me  so  much  for 
using  it,  just  as  you  would  pay  me  for  using  my 
horse  or  my  wagon  or  my  house;  only,  be  sure 
that  I  get  it  back  again  at  the  end  of  the  time." 

A  dollar,  then,  is  the  record  of  so  much  service 


SOCIAL  PROGRESS.  1 85 

rendered,  and  is  the  title  to  so  much  service  to  be 
rendered  in  return.  You  may  hoard  it  up  or  use  it 
up,  loan  it  or  throw  it  away;  you  may  spend  it 
yourself,  or  give  it  to  posterity:  so  far  as  it  goes, 
it  is  a  good  title  to  all  the  manifold  labors  of  all 
mankind.  Thus,  every  blow  with  the  hammer,  every 
stroke  with  the  pen,  every  stitch  with  the  needle, 
every  throw  of  the  shuttle,  every  revolving  of  the 
wheel,  is  one  more  bond  of  union  of  the  part  with 
the  whole,  in  this  vast  aggregate  of  human  services 
that  constitutes  what  we  call  "civilization"  or  "social 
development." 

And  without  some  feeling  that  what  he  does  is 
of  some  use,  —  that  is,  has  a  relation  to  the  great 
fabric  of  human  weal,  —  no  man  can  be  content  with 
his  life,  no  man  can  receive  true  joy  from  his  work. 
But  a  perception  of  this  relation  gives  elasticity  to 
the  muscle,  light  to  the  eye,  cheer  to  the  spirit,  and 
speed  to  the  weary  hour  of  toil.  The  humblest 
worker  may  truly  say,  "  I  also  help  raise  the  great 
edifice  of  society  and  of  social  well-being." 

Many  a  man  becomes  discouraged,  loses  heart, 
sinks  into  listlessness,  or  throws  himself  into  the 
whirl  of  dissipated  folly,  because  he  fails  to  recog- 
nize how  infinitely  great  is  the  least  effort  in  its  re- 
lation to  the  whole,  and  how  infinitely  small  is  the 
most  gigantic  strength  when  isolated  and  separate 
from  the  social  mass  of  benefit.  There  is  a  world 
of  meaning  in  that  old  story  of  the  poor  Yankee  and 
the  wealthy  Pennsylvania  Quaker,  when  the  former 
applied  to  the  latter  for  help  in  his  need. 


1 86  SOCIAL   PROGRESS. 

"Friend,"  said  the  Quaker,  "I  will  furnish  thee 
with  work,  and  pay  thee  for  it;  but  it  is  not  my 
custom  to  give  alms  to  one  able  to  labor  like  thee." 

"  That's  just  what  I  want,"  replied  the  other;  "  I 
am  willing  to  work." 

"Well,"  said  the  Quaker,  "there  is  a  log  yonder, 
and  here  is  an  axe.  Thee  may  pound  on  that  log 
with  the  head  of  the  axe ;  and  if  thee  is  diligent  and 
faithful,  I  will  pay  thee  a  dollar  a  day." 

"  I  'd  as  soon  do  that  as  anything  else,"  said  the 
laborer;  and  accordingly  he  pounded  and  pounded 
on  the  log  with  the  head  of  the  axe.  After  a  while 
his  energies  began  to  flag,  and  in  half  an  hour, 
coming  to  a  full  stop,  he  threw  away  the  axe, 
saying,  "  I  '11  be  hanged  if  I  '11  cut  wood  without 
seeing  the  chips  fly." 

Good  for  the  poor  fellow !  He  wanted  to  effect 
some  end,  to  feel  that  he  was  doing  something  more 
than  earning  his  dollar.  No  one  of  us  is  content  to 
pound  merely  for  the  sake  of  pounding.  Said  Dr. 
Channing,  more  than  fifty  years  ago,  — 

"  To  get  a  living  a  man  must  be  useful.  It  is  strange 
that  laboring  men  do  not  think  more  of  the  vast  useful- 
ness of  their  toils,  and  take  a  benevolent  pleasure  in  them 
on  this  account.  This  beautiful  city,  with  its  houses,  furni- 
ture, markets,  public  walks,  and  numberless  accommoda- 
tions, has  grown  up  under  the  hands  of  artisans  and  other 
laborers ;  and  ought  they  not  to  take  a  disinterested  joy 
in  their  work?  One  would  think  that  a  carpenter  or 
mason,  on  passing  a  house  which  he  had  helped  to  rear, 
would  say  to  himself,  '  This  work  of  mine  is  giving  comfort 


SOCIAL   PROGRESS.  187 

and  enjoyment  every  day  and  hour,  and  will  continue 
to  be  a  kindly  shelter,  a  domestic  gathering-place,  an 
abode  of  affection  after  I  sleep  in  the  dust ; '  and 
ought  not  a  generous  satisfaction  to  spring  up  at  the 
thought?" 

Must  we  wait  for  a  new  organization  of  society  to 
feel  this  satisfaction?  It  may  belong  to  the  hod- 
carrier,  to  the  hewer  of  wood  and  to  the  ham- 
merer of  stone,  as  well  as  to  the  architect  or  to  the 
skilled  mechanic.  Having  this  in  mind,  I  was  sur- 
prised to  read  the  words  of  another  Boston  clergy- 
man, the  other  day,  when  he  said  that  no  man  could 
derive  satisfaction  from  mere  manual  labor,  but  only 
from  skilled  work.  It  is  a  fact  of  social  progress, 
indeed,  that  more  and  more  the  great  forces  of  Na- 
ture are  brought  to  do  the  muscular  drudgery  of  the 
world  ;  but  can  this  drudgery  be  entirely  eliminated? 
Cannot  there  be  for  the  laborer,  as  well  as  for  the 
artist,  a  noble  consolation  and  an  ideal  outlook? 

The  law  of  social  development  is  as  simple  as  it 
is  universal.  The  basis  of  all  movement  is  a  hu- 
man want ;  and  in  order  to  satisfy  this  want,  labor 
is  requisite.  At  first,  man  has  only  his  own  hands 
with  which  to  work ;  but  he  invents  tools,  —  the 
pick,  the  plough,  the  wheel,  the  axe,  etc.,  —  and 
thus  the  gratuitous  and  mighty  forces  of  Nature  are 
turned  into  his  service  and  made  to  do  his  bidding. 
Every  new  application  of  these  forces  inures  to  the 
benefit  of  man  universally,  —  not  merely  of  the  par- 
ticular man  who  invents  the  machine,  or  of  him  who 
applies  it  to  use.  The  capitalist  gains  much  less 


1 88  SOCIAL  PROGRESS. 

relative  advantage  from  improvements  in  machin- 
ery than  the  community  at  large.  Every  conquest 
over  natural  powers,  every  new  servant  of  the  brain 
brought  to  do  man's  bidding,  takes  so  much  from 
the  cost  of  what  is  intended  to  supply  some  human 
want.  The  labor  of  the  hands,  at  every  step  of  me- 
chanical improvement,  at  every  employment  of  nat- 
ural forces,  —  such  as  gravitation,  heat,  attraction,  in 
air,  water,  vapor,  and  gas,  —  becomes  proportionally 
less  and  less,  while  Nature  supplies  more  and  more 
of  her  invisible  ministrants.  For  these  helpers  no 
charge  is  made.  Only  open  a  way  for  Nature  to 
serve,  and  she  runs  to  do  your  bidding.  She  asks 
nothing  but  to  have  the  way  kept  free  for  service. 
Keep  that  in  good  condition,  and  she  neither  strikes, 
nor  asks  for  higher  pay,  nor  even  quits  work  when 
the  sun  goes  down.  She  will  not  be  bound  appren- 
tice to  any  one  exclusive  master.  Does  the  inventor 
nod,  she  serves  some  one  who  is  wide  awake.  Does 
he  appropriate  too  much  to  his  own  benefit,  a  hun- 
dred rivals  start  up  where  there  is  an  open  field  for 
work,  and  immediately  some  simpler  process  is  in- 
vented, some  better  machine,  some  cheaper  method ; 
and  thus  there  is  the  unfailing  tendency  to  benefit 
the  whole,  —  for  more  of  the  gain  that  comes  from 
the  employment  of  these  untiring,  unreasoning, 
ever-obedient  slaves  passes  over  to  the  credit  of 
the  many  than  to  that  of  the  few. 

The  houses  of  a  few  large  land-owners  were  once 
the  only  abodes  of  even  a  modicum  of  comfort,  the 
sole  possessors  of  many  books,  of  fine  furniture, 


SOCIAL  PROGRESS.  189 

of  works  of  luxury  and  art.  But  even  these  few 
would  look  with  wonder  upon  the  accumulated  re- 
sources and  means  belonging  to  thousands  and  tens 
of  thousands  of  average  citizens  to-day.  Once  the 
king's  courier  could  travel,  perhaps,  at  great  trouble 
and  expense,  two  hundred  miles  a  day;  now  the 
laborer,  at  the  cost  of  an  hour's  work,  can  send  his 
courier  a  thousand  miles  in  a  few  minutes  of  time. 
Kings  now  must  travel  upon  the  people's  iron 
highway,  if  they  would  travel  as  fast  as  the  people 
themselves;  the  books  read  by  the  rich  are  no 
longer  a  few  illuminated  manuscripts,  purchased  at 
an  incredible  cost  because  made  entirely  by  human 
labor;  but  they  are  printed  and  bound  by  machin- 
ery, and  so  are  within  the  reach  of  all.  Thus  the 
relative  gain  of  the  community  of  men,  at  every 
step  of  social  development  through  economic  law, 
is  vastly  greater  than  the  gain  of  the  capitalist,  or 
of  the  few  pampered  possessors  of  exclusive  claims 
to  lordship  and  privilege  and  superfluous  wealth. 
The  average  level  is  continually  rising,  and  the 
number  of  sharers  in  any  common  application  of 
natural  forces  grows  larger  every  day. 

Now,  because  of  the  helping  forces  of  Nature 
wealth  increases;  and  this  wealth,  over  and  above 
what  is  immediately  used,  is  the  measure  of  man's 
triumph  over  Nature,  as  well  as  of  Nature's  gratui- 
tous service  in  the  supply  of  human  wants.  What 
is  property,  then?  It  is  the  symbol  of  power  over 
Nature ;  or,  rather,  it  is  the  record  and  the  expres- 
sion of  the  use  which  man  has  made  of  the  forces  of 


IpO  SOCIAL  PROGRESS. 

the  material  universe.  It  is  the  result  of  so  much 
work  done;  and  if  you  will,  you  can  exchange  your 
share  for  so  much  work  of  a  different  kind.  Says  a 
writer  on  the  "  Political  Life  of  our  Time,  — 

"  Where  Nature  does  everything  for  man,  and  man  can 
live  from  hand  to  mouth,  capital  has  no  increase  and  so- 
ciety no  progress.  Capital  and  civilization  have  gone 
hand  in  hand.  The  results  of  a  man's  isolated  contests 
with  the  difficulties  of  Nature  are  extremely  limited,  but 
all-powerful  and  productive  in  the  accumulated  effort  of 
the  race.  This  constitutes  the  real  fixed  capital  of  our 
time,  existing  not  only  in  our  material  riches,  —  buildings 
and  machinery,  —  but  in  the  experience,  the  foresight, 
and  the  prudence  embodied  in  the  agriculture,  trades, 
and  letters  of  the  day. 

Because  it  is  of  so  much  vital  significance,  prop- 
erty has  been  the  great  object  which  all  government 
and  all  organized  forms  of  order  have  sought  to 
secure  and  to  protect.  Without  this  safety  and 
security,  man  remains  a  savage  and  a  brute.  He 
even  sinks  below  the  level  of  the  brute.  The  brute 
does  not  know  what  property  is :  it  has  properties, — 
that  is,  faculties,  —  exactly  proportioned  to  its  limited 
needs.  Its  faculties,  or  properties,  are  good  for  just 
so  much  and  no  more,  —  for  the  secretion  of  so 
much  honey  or  wax  or  web ;  for  the  obtaining  of 
so  much  food ;  for  the  construction  of  a  shelter  on 
just  such  a  pattern ;  for  the  living  in  just  such  an 
environment:  in  a  word,  the  wants,  and  the  proper- 
ties by  which  it  supplies  those  wants,  are  nicely 


SOCIAL  PROGRESS.  Ipl 

correlated,  exactly  measured,  the  one  by  the  other. 
But  it  is  the  prerogative  of  man  to  have  property,  — 
that  is,  an  accumulation  of  material  things  beyond 
the  satisfaction  of  his  own  immediate  wants.  While 
animals  of  one  species  have  precisely  the  same 
wants  and  the  same  properties,  man  has  infinitely 
various  wants  to  be  supplied  in  infinitely  various 
ways ;  man  has  a  personality  not  identical  with  the 
properties  of  his  nature ;  he  has  a  spiritual  force 
not  measured  by  his  beak,  his  claws,  or  his  teeth. 
Now,  the  symbol  of  this  personality,  this  force, 
is  property,  —  that  is,  something  over  and  above 
man's  purely  physical  necessities,  his  wants  of  the 
moment;  something  which  represents  the  services 
he  may  claim  of  his  fellow-men,  according  to  the 
estimate  set  by  the  community  at  any  given  time; 
something  which  entitles  him  to  so  many  supplies 
to  the  wants  of  body,  mind,  or  taste,  —  clothing, 
books,  houses,  pictures,  fields ;  services  of  all  kinds 
except  the  spontaneous  affections  of  the  heart. 
Here  is  a  plane  above  the  operation  of  the  econo- 
mic laws ;  here  is  the  kingdom  not  of  this  world. 
Character,  moral  worth,  is  the  reality,  while  property 
is  only  a  symbol. 

But  because  property  is  such  a  weighty  symbol,  it 
has  always  possessed  a  mysterious  power;  it  repre- 
sents so  much  force,  so  much  industry,  so  much  ex- 
cellence, so  much  self-restraint,  so  much  forethought 
somewhere  and  in  some  souls,  but  not  necessarily 
in  those  particular  persons  who  may  possess  it  at 
the  present  moment.  Thus  property  carries  with 


192  SOCIAL  PROGRESS. 

it  a  prestige,  indefinable,  subtile,  universally  pene- 
trating; so  that  he  who  does  not  feel  it,  and  is  not 
unconsciously  swayed  by  it,  has  been  pronounced 
"  a  miracle  in  Nature."  But  this  prestige  is  not  an 
unmixed  evil :  it  is  one  of  those  appearances  by 
which  man  is  lured  on  to  his  higher  destiny.  He 
is  trained  and  educated  through  symbols,  and  pri- 
marily through  the  world  of  Nature,  which  is  itself 
only  a  symbol. 

See  the  operation  of  the  universal  law.  Man 
attains  a  sense  of  personality,  a  feeling  of  pure, 
spiritual  activity  so  far  as  he  rules,  directs,  and  mas- 
ters the  natural  world.  Just  so  far  as  he  subdues 
and  possesses  Nature,  just  so  far  does  he  come  into 
the  knowledge,  the  use,  and  the  enjoyment  of  his 
own  faculties  as  a  spiritual  being.  The  savage,  who 
uses  Nature  as  coextensive  only  with  the  supply  of 
his  pressing  animal  needs  from  day  to  day,  remains 
stationary,  makes  little  social  progress,  attains  no 
high  degree  of  social  development.  He  looks  upon 
the  forces  of  Nature  as  cruel  and  relentless  foes ;  he 
sees  in  lightning  and  in  torrent  only  wrathful  ministers 
of  vengeance.  He  feels  his  own  weakness,  his  own 
subjection,  his  own  wretchedness.  Nature  is  not  to 
him  a  mirror  in  which  his  own  powers  are  reflected, 
a  standard  by  which  his  own  strength  is  measured  ; 
but  it  is  a  crushing  tyrant,  before  whom  he  must 
unconditionally  yield. 

But  every  advance  made  by  man  in  subduing 
Nature  demonstrates  his  power  and  measures  his 
essential  worth.  He  accumulates  more  than  he 


SOCIAL  PROGRESS.  193 

uses  for  his  present  wants ;  and  that  accumulation  is 
his  capital.  That  symbolizes  his  power  and  his  great- 
ness ;  that  moves  him  from  place  to  place,  unfolds 
to  him  the  secrets  of  the  stars,  opens  to  him  the 
glories  of  the  past,  sends  his  messages  with  light- 
ning swiftness,  turns  the  swamp  into  a  garden,  fills 
his  ear  with  music  and  his  house  with  the  means 
of  comfort  and  of  ease ;  that  sets  in  motion  multi- 
tudes of  men,  and  makes  his  word  almost  omnipo- 
tent in  the  material  world. 

Thus  social  progress  is  the  result  of  man's  rule 
over  Nature's  powers,  of  his  activity  in  the  supply 
of  various  human  wants.  And  the  symbol  of  this 
power,  the  representative  of  this  essential  preroga- 
tive of  man  —  property —  has  been  instinctively  and 
blindly  pursued  as  if  it  were  the  real  and  only  good 
in  itself.  The  idol  has  been  worshipped  as  if  it 
were  the  god.  In  this  material  sheath  the  higher 
spiritual  development  of  man  has  been  cared  for 
and  protected;  for  in  its  building  up  of  material 
interests  humanity  is  building  up  something  better 
than  it  now  sees.  Through  the  free  and  unre- 
stricted operation  of  the  laws  inherent  in  life  and  the 
world,  the  great  problems  of  society  will  have  their 
solution.  The  special  organization  is  beyond  the 
device  of  any  individual  skill;  but  the  time  will 
come  when  the  general  means  of  good  shall  so  far 
surpass  any  one  man's  peculiar  appropriation,  that 
the  idol  shall  be  dashed  in  pieces,  and  the  domain 
of  Nature  pass  entirely  over  to  man.  At  every  step 
of  the  transfer,  what  are  now  exclusive  benefits 

'3 


194  SOCIAL  PROGRESS. 

will  then  be  distributed  as  a  common  heritage.  The 
privileges  of  the  few  in  learning  and  art  are  rapidly 
becoming  the  possibilities  of  all.  The  general  level 
of  comfort,  of  opportunity,  of  knowledge,  is  rising 
from  year  to  year;  and  to  doubt  of  the  sufficiency 
of  the  in-working  laws  of  humanity  for  evolving  the 
highest  good  is  to  doubt  the  splendid  achievements 
of  the  present  and  the  no  less  splendid  possibilities 
of  the  future. 

"  Man  ought  never  to  be  troubled  about  the 
means  of  subsistence,"  says  the  Hindu  apologue 
in  its  admirable  simplicity;  "for  that  the  Creator 
provides.  A  mother  has  no  sooner  given  birth  to 
her  child,  than  two  fountains  of  milk  flow  from  the 
maternal  bosom."  This  suggests  a  truth  which 
every  stage  of  human  progress  does  but  make 
more  plain.  In  it  are  volumes  of  social  science; 
in  it  is  the  prophecy  of  everything  relating  to 
moral  and  natural  subsistence.  Every  supply 
which  humanity  needs  comes  in  its  time;  every 
child  of  inventive  genius  opens  the  sealed  fountains 
of  Nature's  maternal  breast.  To  be  alarmed  lest 
iron  and  coal  and  oil  shall  fail !  Let  them  fail : 
there  is  water,  there  is  air,  there  is  sunlight  to  ren- 
der up  their  infinite  stores  of  good. 

What  is  the  lesson  taught  over  and  over  again? 
Whenever  the  old  has  ceased,  some  better  new  has 
taken  its  place ;  whenever  the  old  faith  and  the  old 
form  are  but  husks,  behold !  from  the  unknown 
depth  of  the  human  spirit  comes  some  fresh  inspira- 


SOCIAL  PROGRESS.  195 

tion,  some  renewing  ideal.  When  the  wider  field 
and  the  virgin  soil  were  needed  for  the  seed  of  a  more 
perfect  manhood,  the  compass  was  made  known,  and 
bold  heart  and  seeing  mind  sailed  forth  into  un- 
known seas.  And  so  each  generation  is  supplied 
out  of  an  infinite  fountain  of  good,  each  day  giving 
some  new  application  of  the  forces  of  the  natural 
world  to  man's  physical,  social,  and  spiritual  exigen- 
cies. We  need  to  see,  then,  the  eternal  laws  of 
order,  of  harmony,  of  universal  tendency  to  good 
shining  in  the  firmament  above,  however  dark  may 
be  the  night,  and  however  hidden  may  be  the  road. 
A  great  social  theorist  of  the  past  generation, 
Leroux,  interpreted  aright  the  lesson  that  is  taught 
to  us  all,  when  we  look  with  upward  gaze  into  the 
heavens  over  our  heads,  and  let  "  the  soul  of  things  " 
speak  to  our  hearts.  He  says :  — 

"  Last  evening,  as  I  walked,  I  was  thinking  upon  the 
ills  that  afflict  humanity,  the  ignorance  and  the  passion 
that  oppose  its  progress ;  upon  how  hard  it  is  to  spread 
abroad  a  new  idea,  and  how  the  truths  most  essential  to 
man's  happiness  and  well-being  are  ignored  and  perse- 
cuted ;  and  thus  thinking,  I  became  sad  and  discouraged. 
Suddenly  I  lifted  up  my  eyes :  the  stars  were  shining  in 
the  heavens.  I  had  gazed  only  a  moment,  when  a  voice 
within  me  said :  '  Thou  who  thus  art  afflicted  at  the  woes 
of  humanity,  and  would  'st  have  them  removed  in  one 
single  instant,  look  at  those  stars,  and  remember  that  not 
centuries,  but  millions  upon  millions  of  centuries  are 
needed  for  their  light  to  reach  the  eye  and  show  their 


196  SOCIAL  PROGRESS. 

place  in  the  heavens.'    With  this  thought,  peace  and  hope 
entered  my  soul,  and  my  moral  sanity  was  restored." 

Neither  must  we  be  misled  by  shooting  stars  or 
sparkling  meteors  that  flash  across  the  sky.  It  is 
related  of  President  Lincoln,  "  that  in  the  gloomiest 
period  of  the  war  he  had  a  call  from  a  large  delega- 
tion of  bank  presidents.  One  of  them  asked  him 
whether  his  confidence  in  the  permanency  of  the 
Union  was  not  beginning  to  be  shaken;  to  which 
this  embodied  genius  of  common-sense  made  the 
following  reply:  '  Gentlemen,  when  I  was  a  young 
man  in  Illinois,  I  boarded  for  a  time  with  a  worthy 
deacon  of  the  Presbyterian  Church.  One  night  I 
was  roused  from  my  sleep  by  a  rap  at  the  door,  and 
I  heard  the  deacon's  voice  exclaiming,  "  Get  up, 
Abraham  !  the  day  of  judgment  has  come  !  "  Spring- 
ing from  the  bed  I  rushed  to  the  window,  and  saw 
great  showers  of  falling  stars ;  but  looking  back  of 
them,  I  saw  in  the  heavens  the  grand  old  constella- 
tions fixed  and  true  in  their  well-known  places. 
Gentlemen/  he  added,  '  the  world  did  not  come  to 
an  end  then,  nor  will  the  Union  now.' " 

The  great  social  result  we  now  see  has  been 
brought  about  without  any  one  man's,  or  all  men's, 
direct  or  voluntary  contrivance,  —  a  result  plastic  to 
every  higher,  in-pressing  tendency.  May  we  not 
say,  then,  in  regard  to  social  development  what  an 
eminent  physiologist l  says  in  regard  to  the  physical 
universe,  that  "  to  see  a  great  result  brought  about 

1  Nature  and  Man.     By  W.  B.  Carpenter.     P.  382. 


SOCIAL   PROG K ESS.  197 

by  the  consentaneous  but  diversified  action  of  a 
multitude  of  individuals,  each  of  whom  does  his 
own  particular  work  in  a  manner  that  combines 
harmoniously  with  the  different  work  of  every  other, 
suggests  to  me  nothing  but  admiration  for  the 
Master-mind  by  which  that  order  was  devised." 


XI. 


SOCIAL  PLANS  AND   PROBLEMS. 

IN  his  grandest  Ode,  —  "Intimations  of  Immortal- 
ity from  the  Recollections  of  Early  Childhood,"  — 
Wordsworth  draws,  not  proofs,  but  suggestions  of 
man's  capacity  for  the  immortal  life ;  and  he  raises 
the  song  of  thanks  and  praise,  not  for  the  delight 
and  liberty  and  hope  of  childhood's  years,  — 

"  But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things ; 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings  ; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized; 
High  instincts,  before  which  our  mortal  nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised : 
But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master-light  of  all  our  seeing." 

Equally  suggestive  are  those  dreams  of  a  nobler 
than  the  present  life,  which,  whether  they  take  the 
form  of  a  paradise  in  the  ages  long  past,  or  a  para- 
dise in  the  coming  ages  of  the  future  of  humanity, 
alike  give  intimations  of  an  immortal  spirit  and  an 
eternal  destiny.  Man  is  not  content  with  that  which 


SOCIAL  PLANS  AND  PROBLEMS.  199 

the  ^ye  can  see  and  the  hand  can  touch ;  in  a  mo- 
ment, his  thought  travels  to  a  fairer  land  and  a  more 
joyous  clime. 

All  ages  have  their  Utopias,  their  visions  of  repub- 
lics and  cities  of  God,  their  purer  State  and  nobler 
organization,  wherein  justice  shall  reign  and  love 
shall  rule,  and  all  shall  be  sharers  in  a  blessedness 
which  the  human  heart  has  never  truly  imagined. 
Take  away  this  ideal  element,  and  few  would  be 
found  to  trouble  themselves  with  plans  and  prob- 
lems for  the  social  good  of  the  race.  Even  man's 
most  material  heaven  is  a  protest  against  the  limita- 
tions of  time  and  sense.  Any  project  or  plan  which 
has  not  in  it  something  of  this  higher  tendency,  this 
appeal  to  what  is  noblest  and  best,  gains  no  hold,  or 
soon  sinks  into  decay  and  nothingness.  There  is 
this  essential  greatness  in  humanity,  —  that  the  only 
cement  which  does  not  crumble,  even  as  it  is  being 
put  on,  is  that  which  has,  or  seems  to  have,  a  divine 
quality,  a  potency  derived  from  its  being  mixed  with 
man's  purest  loves  and  grandest  aspirations.  Be- 
fore he  has  developed  his  capacities,  before  he  finds 
out  that  he  is  capable  of  an  infinite  progress,  man 
suffering  under  the  evils  and  limitations  of  the  pres- 
ent looks  back  to  the  past,  whose  frowning  features 
he  has  forgotten,  and  places  there  his  ideal  state  of 
blessedness,  when  he  lived  in  innocence  and  peace, 
when  the  earth  yielded  spontaneously  its  stores  of 
good,  and  a  golden  age  was  the  heritage  of  the  race. 
But  the  occult  wisdom  of  the  Greek  mysteries  and 
traditions  taught  yEschylus  better  than  this;  and 


200  SOCIAL   PLANS  AND  PROBLEMS. 

he  makes  the  beginnings  of  humanity  in  the  lowest 
depths  of  ignorance  and  want,  without  the  knowl- 
edge even  of  fire,  dwelling  — 

"  In  hollowed  holes,  like  swarms  of  tiny  ants, 
In  sunless  depths  of  caverns." 

It  is  evident  that  ^Eschylus  conceived  civilization  as 
growth. 

The  early  priesthoods  were  the  select  brother- 
hoods, which,  withdrawn  into  themselves,  had  pos- 
session of  whatever  knowledge  then  existed,  and  kept 
it  too  as  their  own  exclusive  right.  In  their  view 
the  multitude  were  to  be  led,  and  to  be  let  into  only 
so  much  acquaintance  with  the  ancient  traditions 
and  the  higher  wisdom  as  seemed  safe  to  the  few 
dwellers  in  the  inmost  circle.  Among  the  freedom- 
loving  Greeks,  however,  the  exclusive  lines  drawn 
by  the  sacred  fraternities  were  soon  overleaped,  and 
in  the  tragedies  of  the  poets  and  the  philosophies  of 
the  early  schools  was  embodied  whatever  was  vital 
in  the  mysteries  and  the  sacerdotal  fraternities.  But 
philosophy  did  not  outgrow  the  idea  of  something 
select  to  be  followed  only  by  the  few,  who  consti- 
tuted a  separate  caste,  and  whose  life  was  not  to  be 
stained  by  contact  with  the  ordinary  cares  and  busi- 
ness of  the  many.  The  great  philosopher  Pytha- 
goras, who  preceded  Plato,  and  to  whom  Plato  was 
vastly  indebted,  founded  a  secret  society,  or  reli- 
gious community,  into  whose  mystic  wisdom  only 
those  were  admitted  who  underwent  years  of  initia- 
tory preparation  by  silence,  by  prayer,  by  purify- 


SOCIAL   PLANS  AND  PROBLEMS.  2OI 

ing  services,  until  they  were  deemed  worthy  to  re- 
ceive the  knowledge  of  the  inmost  revelations  of 
science  and  religion.  The  discipline  which  Pathag- 
oras  instituted  was  intended  to  raise  up  a  company 
of  select  souls,  who  should  be  the  teachers  of  man- 
kind, and  who  should  live  a  separate  and  divine  life. 
It  was  a  new  method  of  living,  and  his  disciples  re- 
ceived a  training  in  science,  in  morals,  and  in  politi- 
cal knowledge.  It  was  their  mingling  in  politics, 
together  with  their  aristocratic  bearing  and  haughty 
exclusiveness,  which  brought  about  their  destruction 
as  an  order  and  scattered  them  over  Greece.  It  is 
easy  for  us  to  comprehend  how  that  which  holds 
others  in  contempt  should  itself  finally  become  the 
victim  of  contempt  in  other  men. 

In  all  ages  religion  appears  to  have  been  the  con- 
secrating bond  that  has  kept  together  those  who 
would  separate  themselves  from  ordinary  society,  and 
thus  attain  a  position  of  freedom  from  its  claims  and 
its  cares.  No  plan  of  material  utility  alone,  of  sen- 
sual pleasure,  of  pecuniary  gain,  has  been  able  to 
unite  for  any  length  of  time  the  sons  and  daughters 
of  this  dreaming,  aspiring  human  race.  But  some 
common,  infinite  hope ;  some  longing  for  good  un- 
bounded by  the  narrow  limits  of  earth  and  sense,  — 
this  has  melted  away  the  differences  of  external  con- 
dition, of  strength,  of  capacity,  of  wealth,  and  of  out- 
ward form,  and  given  a  long  lease  of  perpetuity  to 
many  social  arrangements.  Witness  the  Essenes  in 
Egypt  and  Palestine;  the  monastic  orders  of  the 
Middle  Ages ;  the^Moravians  and  Shakers  of  modern 


2O2  SOCIAL   PLANS  AND  PROBLEMS. 

times.  In  the  earliest  days  of  overflowing  common 
affection  and  devotion,  the  followers  of  Christ  made 
common  cause  for  mutual  support,  and  no  longer 
said  mine  and  thine,  as  far  as  fellow-believers  were 
concerned.  But  this  was  no  association  taking  in 
all  the  world;  it  was  a  solidarity  among  those 
only  who  felt  as  brothers,  and  owned  one  common 
head ;  it  was  a  passing,  temporary  condition  of 
things,  as  limited  and  as  exclusive  as  the  life-school 
of  Pythagoras,  or  the  brotherhood  of  the  Knights 
of  Saint  John. 

But  as  we  travel  down  the  ages  we  come  into  a 
different  atmosphere.  Individual  liberty  begins  to 
claim  its  rights.  Religion,  more  and  more  relegated 
to  a  future  world,  ceases  to  regulate  and  preside  over 
the  present.  Science  makes  known  its  wonderful 
secrets ;  freedom  in  the  sphere  of  politics,  of  thought, 
and  of  labor  makes  its  demands.  The  American 
Revolution  is  an  object-lesson  that  startles  the  dull- 
est pupil  in  the  school  of  privilege  and  divine  right. 
The  French  Revolution,  so  quickly  consumed  by  its 
own  excesses,  scatters  everywhere  glowing  embers, 
which  kindle  into  a  living  flame,  and  burn  on  and 
on  wherever  there  is  wrong  to  be  redressed  and 
inequalities  to  be  removed.  The  foundations  up- 
heaved, trembling,  do  not  fall  back  again  into  the 
old  places.  "We  are  here,"  say  the  laboring  millions, 
"and  we  are  men  who  claim  our  rights !  " 

In  the  first  quarter  of  the  present  century  the  voice 
that  gives  utterance,  embodying  in  articulate,  syste- 
matic tones  this  cry  of  labor,  is  that  of  the  Count 


SOCIAL   PLANS  AND  PROBLEMS.  2O3 

Saint-Simon,  who  died  in  poverty  and  isolation  in 
1825  ;  but  not  before  he  had  given  to  the  world  his 
plan  for  the  amelioration  of  the  moral,  intellectual, 
and  physical  condition  of  the  most  numerous  and 
poorest  class  of  modern  society.  He  would  have 
the  State  become  an  association  of  laborers,  with  its 
chosen  chiefs,  who  should  organize  every  depart- 
ment and  distribute  to  each  one  his  work ;  the  pre- 
sent system  of  competition  and  individual  rivalry 
and  warfare  should  cease,  and  each  individual  labor 
for  the  good  of  the  whole.  He  would  have  the 
directors  of  labor,  the  chiefs  of  industry,  chosen  by 
those  who  are  most  interested  in  the  success  of  the 
association,  and  they  should  regulate  all  business 
affairs  and  all  employments  now  left  to  chance  and 
isolated  proprietors. 

"  Society,"  he  says,  "  is  the  owner  of  all  instruments  of 
production;  it  should  preside  over  all  material  occupa- 
tions ;  it  can  alone  watch  over  every  part  of  the  great 
industrial  workshop,  carry  means  and  instruments  where 
they  are  needed,  and,  in  one  word,  bring  production  into 
harmony  with  consumption.  Thus  will  disappear  the  mis- 
fortunes, the  reverses,  the  failures,  to  which  every  laborer  is 
now  exposed ;  industry  is  organized,  everything  is  foreseen 
and  provided  for ;  division  of  labor  is  perfected,  and  the 
combination  of  all  efforts  becomes  more  potent  every  day." 

But  Saint-Simon's  was  only  one  among  many  en- 
thusiastic utterances  and  hopeful  social  plans.  At 
last,  in  France,  the  vast  number  of  converging  rays 
centred  in  one  burning  focus,  and,  as  the  result, 


2O4  SOCIAL  PLANS  AND  PROBLEMS. 

Louis  Philippe  in  1848  was  driven  from  the  throne. 
What  an  era  was  that  of  grandest  enthusiasm  and 
hope !  The  governor  of  Massachusetts,  George 
N.  Briggs,  in  his  Thanksgiving  proclamation  ex- 
horted us  all  to  pray  to  "  Our  Father  in  Heaven, 
that  He  will  vouchsafe  His  aid  to  our  fellow-men 
in  the  Old  World,  who  are  struggling  to  throw  off 
the  oppression  of  ages,  and  to  regain  their  long- 
lost  rights." 

The  element  which  predominated  in  the  early 
stages  of  this  movement  in  France  was  that  which 
the  exiled  king  had  opposed  and  persecuted.  It 
was  thus  formulated  in  the  defence  of  some  repub- 
licans who  were  accused  of  violating  the  law  by 
seditious  utterances  in  1833,  three  years  after  Louis 
Philippe  had  been  made  king. 

"We  demand,"  boldly  said  the  defendants'  counsel, 
"  that  labor  shall  no  longer  be  made  subordinate  to  the 
interests  of  the  greedy  and  the  idle ;  that  the  workingman 
be  no  longer  made  the  helpless  drudge  of  the  capitalist ; 
that  the  labor  of  his  hands  be  not  the  sole  source  of 
profit;  that  he  may  find  in  the  establishment  of  public 
banks,  in  the  diffusion  of  instruction,  in  the  wise  ad- 
ministration of  justice,  in  the  multiplication  of  the  means 
of  inter-communication,  and  in  the  strength  of  association 
itself,  the  way  of  enlightening  his  tasks,  of  freeing  his  capa- 
cities, and  of  recompensing  his  industry  and  courage." 

It  was  the  energy  imparted  by  this  social  element 
that  won  the  victory  over  the  royal  government ;  it 
was  the  hope  which  this  gave  that  inspired  the 


SOCIAL  PLANS  AND  PROBLEMS.  205 

clamorous  democracy  and  restrained  their  fierce 
excesses.  Thus  France  stood  in  the  vanguard  of 
the  nations,  and  pointed  out  the  way  in  which,  it 
was  claimed,  the  hosts  of  the  future  must  march. 

Ah,  well,  the  revolution  failed;  but  the  enthusi- 
asm of  humanity  never  dies  ! 

The  present  socialistic  atmosphere  has  been  the 
gradual  accretion  of  nearly  a  century  of  growth  in 
democratic  ideas.  From  1825  to  1850  —  the  second 
quarter  of  our  present  century  —  was  a  period  of 
social  experiments  under  various  names  of  commu- 
nities, phalanxes,  associations,  unions,  co-operative 
societies,  etc.,  the  professed  object  of  which  was  to 
furnish  a  catholicon,  or  universal  remedy,  for  all  the 
ills  that  afflict  the  social  body.  There  were  between 
forty  and  fifty  of  these  societies,  with  a  membership 
of  about  nine  thousand  persons,  and  with  an  aver- 
age life  of  less  than  two  years.  The  story  of  these 
attempts  to  heal  the  sickness  of  society  by  a  uni- 
versal remedy  is  one  of  the  most  pathetic  pages  of 
human  history.  It  is  a  most  moving  tragedy,  if 
the  essence  of  tragedy  be  the  collision  of  the  ideal 
and  the  actual, — the  shipwreck  of  hope,  aspiration, 
and  faith,  when  nothing  had  been  looked  for  but 
clear  skies,  favoring  winds,  and  an  open  sea. 

But  Nature  and  life  are  inexorable.  To  mean 
well  is  not  enough ;  good  intentions  will  not  make 
up  for  the  want  of  conformity  to  the  simple  laws  of 
intelligence,  industry,  patience,  and  order.  Robert 
Owen,  a  sincere  philanthropist,  one  of  the  earliest 
social  reformers,  obeyed  these  laws  in  his  dealings 


2O6  SOCIAL  PLANS  AND  PROBLEMS. 

with  wood,  stone,  wool,  and  iron,  and  became  a 
wealthy  magnate  in  the  manufacturing  world.  He 
disobeyed  them  in  his  philanthropic  socialism,  be- 
cause he  was  ignorant  of  the  finer  qualities  of  in- 
dividual and  collective  humanity.  Each  man  is  a 
more  subtile  mechanism  than  was  ever  embodied 
in  wood  or  iron ;  and  yet  how  easy  a  thing,  many 
think,  he  is  to  put  into  some  associate  phalanstery, 
and  how  sure  he  is  to  go  right!  In  1824,  Owen 
bought  out  the  land  and  buildings  of  the  Rappites 
on  the  banks  of  the  Wabash,  and  issued  his  invita- 
tion to  all  the  peoples  of  the  earth  to  throw  off  the 
monstrous  evils  to  which  up  to  that  hour  man  had 
been  a  slave.  On  the  4th  of  July,  1826,  he  delivered 
his  new  declaration  of  independence,  in  a  hall  at 
New  Harmony,  to  the  nine  hundred  souls  who  had 
been  attracted  by  his  picture  of  the  golden  oppor- 
tunity to  attain  all  human  goods,  without  any  ac- 
companying mortal  ill.  He  said :  — 

"  For  nearly  forty  years  have  I  been  employed,  heart 
and  soul,  day  by  day,  almost  without  ceasing,  in  preparing 
the  means  and  arranging  the  circumstances  to  enable  me 
to  give  the  death-blow  to  the  tyranny  which  for  unnum- 
bered ages  has  held  the  human  mind  spellbound  in  chains 
of  such  mysterious  forms  that  no  mortal  has  dared  approach 
to  set  the  suffering  prisoner  free  !  Nor  has  the  fulness  of 
time  for  the  accomplishment  of  this  great  event  been 
completed  until  within  this  hour.  Such  has  been  the 
extraordinary  course  of  events,  that  the  Declaration  of 
Political  Independence  in  1776  has  produced  its  counter- 
part, the  Declaration  of  Mental  Independence  in  1826, — 
the  latter  just  half  a  century  from  the  former." 


SOCIAL  PLANS  AND  PROBLEMS.  2O/ 

Here  certainly  is  self-confidence,  if  nothing  else. 
But  in  one  year  from  that  time  the  bubble  had 
burst;  Mr.  Owen  went  back  to  Scotland,  and  his 
poor  followers  went  back  to  the  beggarly  elements 
of  the  outside  world.  A  visitor  to  New  Harmo- 
ny, fifteen  years  afterward,  was  cautioned  not  to 
speak  of  socialism,  "  as  the  subject  was  unpop- 
ular." That  is  not  very  strange.  Poor  man !  he 
found  that  men  were,  many  of  them,  intractable,  dis- 
honest, lovers  of  liquor,  lovers  of  their  own  selfish 
pleasure,  envious,  wasteful,  and  quarrelsome.  But 
he  never  saw  that  a  man  carried  himself  with  him 
wherever  he  went ;  that  fine  feathers  did  not  neces- 
sarily make  fine  birds.  He  held  fast  to  his  main 
principle,  that,  put  men  in  good  circumstances,  and 
they  will  necessarily  be  good.  Ah,  how  easy  it 
would  be  to  reform  the  world  if  only  the  external 
surroundings  had  to  be  considered !  But  unfortu- 
nately there  is  such  a  thing  as  human  nature  in 
every  human  being;  and  this  human  nature  has  a 
trick  of  throwing  down  every  obstacle,  and  flying,  if 
need  be,  over  every  wall. 

How  often  we  forget  this,  in  our  impatient  zeal 
to  accomplish  at  one  stroke  what  the  thousand  and 
tens  of  thousand  ages  of  the  slowly  growing  past 
have  not  yet  brought  about !  Yes,  our  temple  shall 
be  constructed  at  once ;  its  massive  walls  and  grace- 
ful dome  shall  bless  the  sight  now,  even  of  this 
present  generation.  But  where  are  the  polished 
bricks,  the  hammered  and  jointed  stones?  Alas 
for  the  necessity  to  have  the  clay  well  burnt,  rightly 


208  SOCIAL  PLANS  AND  PROBLEMS. 

hardened,    and    deftly   smoothed,   and    the    stones, 
something  else  than  crumbling  pudding-stone ! 

When  Robert  Owen  was  seventy-five  years  old  he 
again  visited  this  country  on  a  lecture  tour,  to  ad- 
vocate his  philanthropic  schemes.  He  was  not 
shaken  in  his  firm  faith  of  being  able  to  establish, 
as  Adin  Ballou  says  of  him,  "  a  great  model  of  the 
new  social  State,  which  would  bring  the  human  race 
into  a  terrestrial  paradise."  In  1846  he  lectured  in 
the  New  York  Assembly  chamber  before  the  dele- 
gates to  form  a  new  Constitution  for  that  State,  in 
which  he  said :  — 

"  All  religious  systems,  constitutions,  governments,  and 
laws  are,  and  have  been,  founded  in  error ;  and  that  error 
is,  that  man  forms  his  own  character.  They  [the  dele- 
gates] were  about  to  form  another  Constitution  based 
upon  that  error,  and  ere  long  more  Constitutions  would 
have  to  be  made  and  altered,  —  and  so  on,  until  the  truth 
that  the  character  of  man  is  formed  for  him  shall  be  re- 
cognized, and  the  system  of  society  based  upon  that  prin- 
ciple become  national  and  universal." 

This  is,  expressed  or  unexpressed,  the  essen- 
tial point  of  view,  the  fundamental  creed,  of  all 
socialistic  schemes.  Louis  Blanc  stated  it  plainly 
in  his  programme,  when  he  said :  "  It  is  not  the 
man  who  is  responsible  for  his  wrong-doings,  but 
society;  and,  hence,  a  society  on  a  good  basis 
will  make  the  individual  man  good."  With  a  cer- 
tain class  of  minds  there  is  this  conviction,  that 
external  conditions  are  the  all-important  thing; 


SOCIAL  PLANS  AND  PROBLEMS.  2OO, 

that  with  changed  circumstances,  the  entire  inner 
being  will  be  changed.  This  was  the  expressed 
creed,  as  we  have  seen,  of  Robert  Owen;  and  he 
based  upon  this  theoretical  view  of  man's  nature 
all  his  reasonings  and  exhortations.  It  crops  out 
incidentally  in  many  advocates  of  social  changes. 
Thus  Gronlund  says :  "  A  socialist  regime  will  make 
it  a  man's  interest  to  be  honest;  and  just  as  surely 
as  a  stone  falls  to  the  ground,  all  men  will  become 
honest."  Here  seems  to  be  an  entire  ignorance 
of  what  constitutes  honesty  as  a  virtue.  Because 
a  man  does  not  steal  from  you  or  pick  your  pocket, 
he  is  not  necessarily  an  honest  man:  you  can 
simply  predicate  of  him  that  he  is  not  a  pick- 
pocket, or  that  he  is  not  a  thief.  The  ox,  satisfied 
with  the  rich  pasturage  of  its  grazing-field,  feeds 
on,  and  does  not  jump  the  wall  that  divides  it 
from  the  adjoining  rocky  pasture.  That  speaks 
well  for  its  contented  disposition,  but  it  is  not 
honesty.  So  it  does  not  constitute  a  man  of  in- 
tegrity to  perform,  as  a  cog-wheel  in  a  machine, 
the  work  appointed  him  in  some  social  regime. 
As  a  part  of  the  machine,  he  has  no  idea  what 
integrity  means.  According  to  the  terms  laid  down, 
he  has  no  more  temptation  to  do  differently  than 
a  stone  has  not  to  fall  to  the  ground.  The  stone 
has  just  as  much  integrity,  then,  as  the  man:  it 
is  an  honest  stone,  let  me  tell  you  that. 

Here  comes  out  plainly  the  radical  defect  of  all 
such  panaceas.  They  profess  to  furnish,  once  for 
all,  the  catholicon,  or  universal  remedy  for  all  the 

H 


2IO  SOCIAL  PLANS  AATD  PROBLEMS, 

ills  that  social  flesh  is  heir  to.  All  wants  are  to  be 
supplied,  all  sufferings  removed,  all  afflictions  healed, 
by  some  external  arrangements  which  money  and 
modern  improvements  can  furnish.  These  will 
form  a  man's  character,  perfect  his  morals,  purify 
his  motives,  and  make  him  disinterested,  manly, 
and  loving !  That  he  shall  form  his  own  character 
is,  of  course,  absurd.  Even  Lamennais,  whose  deep 
spiritual  sympathies  were  stirred,  and  whose  inter- 
est was  that  of  a  man  in  the  sufferings  of  his  fellow- 
man,  says  that  "  from  the  holy  maxims  of  equality, 
liberty  and  fraternity  being  immovably  established, 
the  organization  of  society  will  emanate."  But 
embody,  if  you  will,  these  maxims  in  an  external 
form,  and  how  long  will  it  last  unless  there  is  the 
internal  spirit  pervading  its  every  part !  To  gather 
brothers  by  blood  under  one  roof  has  never  yet 
proved  a  catholicon  for  an  unbrotherly  temper. 

But  in  the  system  of  Fourier  all  this  demand  for 
pure  principles  of  action  is  regarded  as  sentimen- 
tal bosh.  Society,  he  thinks,  must  be  organized 
so  as  to  give  free  expression  to  all  the  natural  ten- 
dencies of  man.  Self-restraint,  self-control,  and  self- 
sacrifice  are  the  fundamental  errors  of  an  effete 
and  collapsing  order  of  things.  The  general  har- 
mony will  come  from  the  free  action  and  re-action 
of  all  the  affections,  tendencies,  and  passions  of  man. 
So  arrange  the  work,  the  occupations,  and  the 
amusements  of  life  that  every  spontaneous  passion 
shall  find  its  proper  gratification,  and  the  great 
laws  of  social  order  will  be  established  on  the 


SOCIAL   PLANS  AND  PROBLEMS.  211 

immutable  basis  of  Nature's  laws.  When  every 
part  of  the  human  machine,  every  wheel  and 
pivot,  is  in  its  pre-arranged  and  proper  place, 
there  must  be,  he  affirms,  orderly  movement  and 
a  harmonious  result.  There  can  be  no  such  thing 
as  suffering  when  every  one  can  delight  himself 
to  the  top  of  his  bent,  —  an  embodiment  on  the 
earth  of  Swedenborg's  doctrine  of  the  spiritual 
hells. 

Such  has  been  the  rise  and  fall  of  some  of  the 
associations  and  phalanxes  of  the  past;  and  in 
reading  their  history  it  is  surprising,  most  of  all,  that 
while  the  ignorance,  the  moral  defects,  the  social 
delinquencies,  and  the  shortcomings  of  every  kind 
are  freely  spoken  of,  the  final  failure  is  not  attri- 
buted to  these,  but  mainly  to  some  external  and 
material  cause, —  debt,  poor  crops,  inharmonious 
surroundings,  unfaithful  agents,  hasty  preparation, 
barren  soil,  bad  location,  and  insufficient  capital. 
Thus,  one  of  the  members  of  the  Sylvania  associa- 
tion, of  which  Horace  Greeley  was  treasurer,  admits 
"  that  jealousies  and  ill-feelings  were  created,  and  in 
place  of  that  self-sacrifice  and  zealous  support  of 
the  constitution  and  officers,  to  which  they  were 
all  pledged,  there  was  a  total  disregard  of  all  dis- 
cipline, and  a  determination  in  each  to  have  the 
biggest  share  of  all  things  going,  except  hard  labor, 
which  was  very  unpopular  with  a  certain  class." 
But  as  if  this  were  only  a  secondary  matter,  the 
writer  goes  on  to  say,  "  Aside  from  this,  we  had 
only  a  barren  wilderness  to  experiment  upon,"  etc. 


212  SOCIAL   PLANS  AND  PROBLEMS. 

And  this  association  was  announced  as  the  remedy 
for  "  the  present  defective,  vice-engendering,  and 
ruinous  system  of  society,  with  its  wasteful  compli- 
cation of  isolated  households,  its  destructive  com- 
petition and  anarchy  in  industry,  its  constraint  of 
millions  to  idleness,"  etc. 

It  is  hard  for  us,  at  this  day,  remote  from  the  stir- 
ring enthusiams  of  public  meetings,  the  personal 
magnetism  of  leaders,  the  devoted  zeal  of  long-pon- 
dering thought,  and  the  hardships,  perhaps,  of  a 
previous  life  of  constraint  and  poverty,  —  it  is  hard 
for  us  to  be  patient  with  such  utter  want  of  common- 
sense,  with  the  stupid  futility  of  these  numerous 
plans  and  attempts  to  cure,  once  for  all,  the  diseases 
of  modern  society.  One  of  these  escaping  victims 
well  says,  "  If  human  beings  were  passive  bodies, 
and  we  could  place  them  just  where  we  pleased,  we 
might  so  arrange  them  that  their  actions  would  be 
harmonious."  Yes;  but  this  is  a  mighty  if>  that 
ought  to  be  enough  to  deter  any  reflecting  man 
from  the  attempt.  And  he  goes  on  to  say,  "  If  we 
knew  mathematically  the  laws  which  regulate  the  ac- 
tions of  human  beings,  it  is  possible  we  might  place 
all  men  in  true  relations  to  one  another." 

Now,  this  is  what  Charles  Fourier  professed  to 
have  discovered  and  unfolded  to  humanity.  As 
this  very  man  says,  "  We  wished  to  combine  capi- 
tal and  labor,  according  to  the  theory  laid  down 
by  Charles  Fourier."  It  seems  almost  incredible 
that  such  men  as  Horace  Greeley,  Charles  A.  Dana, 
and  others  should  have  actively  encouraged  poor, 


SOCIAL  PLANS  AND  PROBLEMS.  21 3 

well-meaning  enthusiasts  to  embark  in  such  hazard- 
ous schemes.  They  knew  well  enough,  what  these 
earnest  souls  did  not  know,  that  Charles  Fourier 
discouraged  all  attempts  to  carry  out  his  theory, 
unless  it  could  be  carried  out  in  its  completeness 
and  under  the  circumstances  indicated  by  him. 
He  laid  down  the  exact  forces  of  what  he  called 
passional  attraction,  by  which  a  harmonious  adjust- 
ment would  result,  if  a  community  were  arranged 
in  such  groups  and  series  as  some  two  thousand 
persons  might  render  possible,  in  a  fitting  phalan- 
stery. And  intelligent  men  who  understood  Fourier 
sat  by  and  saw  these  ignorant  people  embark  in 
an  undertaking  that  was  as  sure  to  fail  as  the  sun 
was  to  set.  It  was  as  if  some  naval  constructor 
had  said,  "  Build  me  a  ship  of  such  a  size  and  of 
such  a  strength,  and  you  shall  be  insured  safety  in 
crossing  the  stormiest  ocean."  And  they  build  a 
ship  of  reeds  and  shingles,  and  they  call  it  his 
modelled  vessel,  and  put  forth  bravely  to  sea,  and 
sink,  even  before  they  have  passed  the  harbor's 
mouth  !  To  float  bogus  mines  and  bonds  of  rail- 
roads that  begin  nowhere  and  end  in  the  same 
place,  is  harmless  in  comparison  with  this  trifling 
with  man's  most  sacred  aspirations  and  hopes. 

Another  association  was  started  with  a  flourish- 
ing constitution  of  sixty-two  articles,  of  which  the 
fourteenth  is  as  follows :  — 

"  The  treasury  shall  consist  of  a  suitable  metallic  safe, 
secured  by  seven  different  locks,  the  keys  of  which  shall 


214  SOCIAL   PLANS  AND  PROBLEMS. 

be  deposited  in  the  keeping  and  the  care  of  the  following 
officers,  to  wit,  —  one  with  the  president  of  the  Unity,  one 
with  the  president  of  the  advisory  council,  one  with  the 
secretary-general,  one  with  the  agent-general,  one  with  the 
arbiter-general,  and  one  with  the  reporter-general.  The 
moneys  in  said  treasury  to  be  drawn  out  only  by  authority 
of  an  order  from  the  executive  council,  signed  by  all  the 
members  of  the  same  in  session  at  the  time  of  the  draw- 
ing of  such  order,  and  countersigned  by  the  president  of 
the  Unity.  All  such  moneys  thus  drawn  shall  be  com- 
mitted to  the  care  and  disposal  of  the  executive  council." 

Here  evidently  was  trust  put  not  in  human  nature, 
but  in  a  combination  that  beats  the  most  elaborate 
modern  combination-lock  of  the  finest  steel.  No 
money,  however,  was  lost;  for  none  was  ever  put 
in,  and  the  Unity  itself  soon  became  a  zero. 

To  read  the  entire  record  of  these  attempts  to 
overcome  the  great  primal  laws  of  Nature  and  hu- 
manity; to  see  often  the  best  hearts  broken  under  the 
fatal  impingement  against  the  rocky  ramparts  that 
the  everlasting  nature  of  things  builds  against  igno- 
rance, rashness,  and  vice, — leaves  little  room  for  ridi- 
cule or  even  blame.  This  world  is  but  young,  and 
the  same  lesson  has  to  be  learned  again  and  again. 

The  day  for  forming  such  associations  as  a  social 
catholicon  has  gone  by,  and  the  view  of  hopeful 
dreamers  is  fixed  upon  a  far  higher  goal,  —  that  is,  of 
bringing  all  the  power  of  the  State  to  annihilate  all 
individual  property,  all  capital  in  private  hands,  and 
to  effect  all  production  and  all  distribution  through 
public  functionaries  of  the  State. 


SOCIAL   PLANS  AND  PROBLEMS.  21$ 

But  what  is  the  State?  Why,  you  and  I.  That  is, 
then,  you  and  I  are  to  settle  who  of  us  shall  occupy 
the  land  ;  who  shall  manage  the  railroads,  the  shops, 
and  the  manufactories;  who  shall  create  and  dis- 
tribute the  vast  and  infinitely  complex  systems  of 
modern  life.  According  to  Edward  Bellamy,  fifty 
years  is  an  unreasonably  long  time  for  this  universal 
revolution  to  be  brought  about.  Incredible  as  it 
may  seem,  "Looking  Backward"  is  a  romance  taken 
for  more  than  gospel  by  thousands  of  men,  and  it 
has  the  greatest  circulation  of  any  book  at  the  pres- 
ent time.  This  fact  shows  us  not  its  literary  worth, 
not  its  excellence  as  a  work  of  pure  imagination, 
but  its  adaptation  to  the  thoughts  and  tendencies 
of  the  present  time.  A  chord  has  been  struck  to 
which  there  is  a  general  response.  In  this  remark- 
able book  the  wishes  and  hopes  and  aspirings  of 
many  hearts  are  revealed ;  and  though  the  special 
view  it  advocates  may  not  be  accomplished,  the 
vision  of  better  things  than  the  present  may  be  an 
incitement  and  an  inspiration  to  many  souls. 

In  the  ancient  view,  man  was  really  a  man  not 
from  his  own  manliness,  but  as  a  corporate  part  of 
the  city  or  State.  So  in  the  Augustinian  view  man 
was  man  as  one  of  the  elect  of  God,  a  citizen  of  the 
heavenly  city.  There  was  but  one  city  that  pos- 
sessed this  prerogative,  —  the  earthly  Rome ;  and  it 
existed  as  the  symbol  of  the  city  of  God,  into  which 
the  right  of  citizenship  was  the  eternal  decree  of 
God  himself.  The  Church  received  in  a  wider  form 
the  legacy  of  the  city. 


2l6  SOCIAL  PLANS  AND  PROBLEMS. 

That  any  definite  plan  which  man  can  devise,  d 
priori,  will  be  the  final  goal  of  humanity  is  a  Utopi- 
an ideal.  Man,  as  a  recipient  of  the  infinite  reality, 
must  ever  be  unfolding,  putting  forth  higher  aspira- 
tions, and  using  every  present  attainment  as  a  step- 
ping stone  to  yet  more  glorious  ideals.  The  real 
heaven  is  in  the  enjoyment  and  use  of  this  growing 
aspiration.  It  is  not  a  discontented  feeling  arising 
from  the  want  of  some  definite  means  of  enjoyment, 
but  of  entire  content  with  the  means  and  conditions 
as  adequate  to  man's  real  wants.  To  be  absolutely 
perfect  is,  indeed,  an  impossible  state  for  humanity; 
but  to  be  content  with  an  ever  increasing  growth  of 
higher  possibilities  is  the  reward  of  fidelity  to  the 
opening  ideals.  In  all  ages,  man  has  had  the  au- 
dacity to  think  that  he  can  construct  a  model 
according  to  which  society  must  be  arranged,  if  it 
would  reach  a  perfect  state.  It  is  forgotten  that 
it  would  be  easier  to  construct  a  living  man  than 
a  living  society.  There  is  no  limit  to  man's  power 
in  making  machines;  but  social  man  is  the  most 
complex  mechanism  in  Nature. 

Because,  moreover,  man  is  this  living,  organized 
form  of  affections  and  spontaneous  impulses;  be- 
cause he  is  subject  to  every  skyey  influence,  and 
open  to  ever  fresh  inspirations  of  truth  and  duty,  it 
is  impossible  to  make  him  over  after  any  one  model, 
or  distil  any  one  simple  or  compound  elixir  that 
shall  suit  all  his  wants,  or  remedy  all  his  social  evils. 
As  Mr.  Ely  says :  "  There  is  no  one  remedy  for  social 
evils.  A  multitude  of  agencies  for  good  must  work 


SOCIAL   PLANS  AND  PROBLEMS.  2.1J 

together."  But  does  not  he  himself  fall  into  this  idea 
of  a  catholicon,  panacea,  or  universal  remedy,  when 
he  quotes  with  approval  these  words  of  De  Lave- 
leye:  "There  must  be  for  human  affairs  an  order 
which  is  the  best.  It  is  the  order  which  ought  to 
exist  for  the  greatest  happiness  of  the  human  race. 
It  is  for  man  to  discover  and  establish  it."  Now,  is 
the  responsibility  laid  upon  man  to  discover  the  best 
order  for  all  the  human  race  any  more  than  to  dis- 
cover the  best  weather  for  the  whole  round  earth? 
It  is  for  man  to  adapt  himself  in  the  best  way  he 
can  to  those  conditions  of  earth,  sky,  and  atmos- 
phere which  prevail  from  hour  to  hour,  in  this 
climate  and  in  that.  He  can  establish,  a  priori,  no 
one  state  of  things  which,  being  the  absolutely  best, 
will  answer  for  all  times  and  all  men.  There  can  be 
no  one  permanent,  crystallized  form  that  shall  en- 
dure forever.  To  every  human  state  there  is  a 
morning  and  an  evening;  for  movement  is  the  token 
and  condition  of  life.  While  man  lives,  he  must  be 
in  vital  relations,  ever  changing,  with  that  which 
surrounds  him ;  and  that  which  surrounds  him  re- 
flects his  own  internal  being.  Any  one  fixed  state 
would  seem  to  a  growing  and  unfolding  soul  an  in- 
tolerable burden,  a  wearisome  monotony  of  exist- 
ence. Flat,  stale,  and  unprofitable  would  become  all 
the  uses  even  of  the  best  world  into  which  we  were 
nicely  fitted  to  a  T,  parts  of  a  machine  from  which 
there  was  no  escape. 

To  the  clear-seeing  eye,  society  is  now  a  form  of 
useful  activities,  and  not  a  mere  conglomerate  of 


2l8  SOCIAL   PLANS  AND  PROBLEMS. 

scrambling,  self-sufficing,  all-grasping  individuali- 
ties. There  is  no  honest  work  or  business  that  is 
not  founded  upon  the  actual  necessities  of  man,  or 
which  does  not  include  the  good  of  some  others 
than  self.  Every  paying  employment,  as  well  as 
many  non-paying  ones,  ministers  to  some  human 
need.  To  earn  his  own  daily  bread,  the  individual 
must  perform  some  service  to  his  fellow-men;  and 
all  the  apparatus  of  social  existence  is  for  the  supply 
of  the  varied  wants  of  social  man. 

The  more  these  wants  are  multiplied,  the  more 
easy  it  becomes  to  get  what  is  called  a  living ;  and 
at  the  present  time  there  are  very  many  ways  of 
ministering  to  the  wants  of  society  where  fifty  years 
ago  there  was  one.  The  varieties  of  daily  work  are 
increasing  from  day  to  day;  and  it  has  been  well 
said,  that  "  every  one  who  is  lifted  from  a  life  of 
bare  existence  to  one  where  it  becomes  a  necessity 
for  him  to  have  the  best  of  life,  is  adding  so  much 
to  the  world's  wealth."  In  this  way  life  becomes 
as  great  as  we  can  make  it. 

A  strenuous  advocate  of  making  all  men  public 
functionaries,  says:  "Look  at  the  pettiness  of  iso- 
lated private  business;  and  then  consider  what  a 
dignity  it  will  confer  on  one  to  become  a  public  func- 
tionary, conscientiously  contributing,  in  his  smallest 
acts,  to  society's  welfare  !  "  But  is  not  all  the  dignity 
really  contained  in  that  one  mighty  word  "  consci- 
entiously "  ?  Is  not  that  included  in  the  humblest 
work  of  every  honest  man  and  woman  to-day? 


SOCIAL  PLANS  AND  PROBLEMS.  219 

Moreover,  is  it  true  that  becoming  a  public  func- 
tionary of  itself  adds  to  the  dignity  of  a  man's  life? 
Does  a  man  thereby  become  more  manly,  more  self- 
sacrificing,  broader  in  his  views,  grander  in  his  out- 
look upon  life  and  the  world?  Ask  the  post-office 
clerks,  the  members  of  the  civil  service,  the  men 
and  women  in  Washington  who  serve  in  the  official 
tread-mill,  bitterly  regretting  the  time  when  they 
stepped  upon  the  revolving  wheel,  which  now  com- 
pels them  to  keep  up,  for  dear  life,  the  incessant 
tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  of  their  convict  round,  —  hear 
them  speak  of  the  pettiness  of  official  life,  and  the 
illusion  of  any  special  dignity  pertaining  to  the  pub- 
lic functionary  will  be  dispelled. 

But  whether  as  private  individuals  or  as  public 
functionaries,  it  matters  not:  the  work  of  the  all- 
aspiring  soul  that  is  present  in  Humanity,  and  is  the 
central  force  of  every  unfolding  adaptation  to  man's 
well-being  and  progress,  —  this  work  will  be  accom- 
plished ;  and  let  us  be  glad  that  we  are  privileged 
to  live  and  to  learn  in  this  day,  when  the  dawn  of  a 
brighter  morning  gilds  the  distant  mountain  peaks. 


xn. 

SOCIAL  TENDENCIES. 

IN  every  organic  structure  there  is  a  relation  of  all 
the  parts  to  the  whole ;  and  when  this  relation  is 
normal  and  perfect  the  object  is  beautiful,  and 
answers  all  the  purposes  for  which  it  was  made. 
But  when  some  one  part,  some  one  organ,  is  forced 
out  of  this  relation,  deformity  is  the  result.  Society 
may  be  deformed  through  undue  predominance  of 
king  or  lords  or  commons,  when  king,  lords,  and 
commons  make  up  the  whole.  In  different  ages, 
different  types  of  deformity  are  seen. 

It  has  been  well  said  that  the  three  great  char- 
acteristics of  any  living  organism  are  unity,  growth, 
and  identity  of  structure.  These  characteristic  fea- 
tures manifest  themselves  in  that  organism  which  we 
call  the  United  States  of  America.  The  various 
parts  are  united  as  a  vital  whole ;  and  of  this  whole, 
growth  can  most  surely  be  predicated.  So  also  can 
identity  of  structure.  In  England  there  is  no  such 
identity,  for  hereditary  kingship  and  hereditary 
lords  do  not  belong  to  a  democratic  structure. 

In  the  social  tendencies  of  to-day  toward  the  car- 
rying out  of  democratic  principles  into  life,  many 
see  only  danger  to  our  present  form  of  political 


SOCIAL    TENDENCIES,  221 

organization.  A  recent  writer  in  the  "  Atlantic 
Monthly  "  will  have  it  that  in  the  establishment  of 
our  government  we  were  simply  carrying  out  the 
principles  and  habits  of  constitutional  history,  but 
that  now  other  influences  have  come  in,  to  which 
we  must  adapt  ourselves  the  best  way  we  can  ;  that, 
above  all,  leaders  are  necessary,  and  only  in  na- 
tional leaders  can  national  safety  be  found.  He  for- 
gets the  one  great  leader  (the  people}  which  makes 
leaders  possible  only  as  they  share  in  the  inspiration 
that  comes  to  every  soul ;  he  does  not  consider  that 
we  shall  hold  together  only  so  long  as  we  are  the 
conductors  of  the  magnetic  current  that  streams 
through  all  the  race ;  that  our  safety  and  growth 
consist  not  in  holding  fast  to  any  historical  pre- 
cedent, but  in  obeying  the  law  of  human  progress, 
and  in  following  that  spirit  of  equal  justice,  of  uni- 
versal freedom,  which  was  the  key-note  of  the  first 
intelligent  political  utterances. 

But  whether  original  or  imported,  we  must  accept 
the  break  which  present  tendencies  —  that  order  of 
things  in  which  we  live  and  work  to-day — have 
made  with  the  old.  We  hear  it  said :  "  True,  we 
have  a  different  way  of  governing,  —  we  choose  our 
rulers,  and  they  do  not  theirs ;  that  is  about  all  you 
can  make  of  it.  It  is  a  question,  however,  if  their 
way  may  not  be  the  best,  —  sometimes  at  least.  To 
be  sure,  an  hereditary  ruler  and  a  privileged  class 
do  not  always  produce  the  best  results ;  and  on  the 
whole,  if  we  can  have  a  good  strong  police,  it  may 
not  prove  so  bad  a  thing  to  have  got  rid  of  the  ex- 


222  SOCIAL    TENDENCIES. 

pensive  luxury  of  kings  and  queens,  —  especially 
if  they  have  large  families,  and  all  the  regal  scions 
must  have  establishments  and  pensions,  and  be  sup- 
ported out  of  the  public  crib.  Yet  how  nice  it  would 
be  to  have,  as  Mr.  Carlyle  says  they  have  in  England, 
1  a  body  of  brave  men  and  of  beautiful,  polite  women, 
furnished  gratis,  as  they  are,  —  some  of  them  (as 
my  Lord  Derby,  I  am  told,  in  a  few  years  will  be) 
with  not  far  from  two-thirds  of  a  million  sterling 
annually !  '  Why  could  not  we  with  profit  have  in 
America,  as  Mr.  Carlyle  suggests,  '  a  nobleman  or 
two,  with  his  chivalry  and  magnanimity,  one  polite 
in  the  finest  form,  —  the  politest  kind  of  nobleman 
(especially  his-  wife,  the  politest  and  gracefullest 
kind  of  woman)  ?  ' ' 

Now,  greatly  as  we  must  admire  bravery  and 
magnanimity,  devoutly  as  we  may  worship  polite- 
ness and  grace  of  demeanor,  mere  politeness  and 
grace  cannot  make  the  sun  go  round  the  earth, 
even  a  little.  Bravery  and  magnanimity  must  be 
developed  in  some  more  rational  and  consistent 
way  than  this.  We  must  accept  the  break  which 
our  democratic  order  makes  with  the  old  order  of 
things.  "  The  breach  of  America,"  says  the  Ger- 
man Michelet,1  "  with  the  old  principles  is  com- 
plete. America  is  to  be  called  a  new  world,  in  the 
spiritual  sense  yet  more  than  in  the  natural.  Its 
connecting  bond  is  the  universal  spirit.  Its  rulers 
are  not  the  masters,  but  the  servants  of  the  people. 
It  has  no  nobility,  no  privileged  class  with  its  ossi- 
1  History  of  the  Development  of  Humanity  since  1775. 


SOCIAL    TENDENCIES.  22$ 

fied  prejudices,  to  hinder  the  transmission  of  the 
indwelling  reason  of  the  people,  the  divine  inspi- 
ration. It  has  broken  with  historical  precedents, 
and  its  life  is  in  the  carrying  out  of  the  eternal  new 
which  its  Constitution  embodies." 

But  we  must  distinguish  between  "  breaking  with 
historical  precedents "  and  breaking  with  history 
itself.  There  is,  there  can  be,  no  break  in  the  life 
of  humanity;  and  we  are  the  normal  development 
of  the  historic  continuity  of  that  humanity.  That 
principle  of  life,  that  indwelling  reason,  that  creat- 
ing idea  which  gives  meaning,  continuity,  and  per- 
manence to  the  political  and  social  world,  has  in 
America  found  its  ultimate  and  most  universal  ex- 
pression. Take  away  this  principle,  and  what 
meaning  is  there  in  all  this  material  movement  and 
multiform  appearance  of  men  and  things?  The 
new,  different  as  it  is,  is  the  child  of  the  old.  It 
has  a  separate  existence;  but  it  has  the  blood  of 
the  parents  coursing  in  its  veins,  though  it  must 
thereafter  use  its  own  lungs,  and  live  by  the  beat- 
ing of  its  own  heart.  Only  thus  can  it  build  up  a 
new  body  of  a  better  type,  and  on  a  higher  plane 
of  social  well-being. 

The  relation  we  have  to  the  European  world  is 
sometimes  spoken  of  as  comprehended  in  showing 
the  older  nations  that  free  institutions  are  possible, 
and  that  political  arrangements  after  our  pattern  are 
the  best  method  of  governing  a  people.  But  this 
is  a  very  incomplete  and  one-sided  statement  of 
this  central  truth,  —  that  here,  in  America,  is  the  un- 


224  SOCIAL    TENDENCIES. 

folding  and  realization  of  principles  and  tenden- 
cies that  are  everywhere  operating  throughout  the 
civilized  world.  The  form  which  such  principles 
must  take  in  political  organization  has  here  been 
taken.  In  that  direction  the  fitting  expression  has 
been  found ;  the  spirit  has  created  its  adapted  body, 
and  that  work  needs  not  to  be  done  again.  And  it 
is  a  universal  law,  that  any  spiritual  tendency  oper- 
ates with  full  power  only  when  it  has  reached  the 
outmost  boundary,  the  lowest  plane  of  action  and 
life;  then  it  ascends,  and  pervades  every  part  with 
fullest  energy.  It  became  a  vital  necessity  that 
slavery  should  be  cut  away ;  for  it  was  a  cancerous 
tumor  in  the  body  politic,  sucking  up  the  life  and 
corrupting  the  blood.  It  is  a  vital  necessity  that 
the  fresh  demands  of  the  spirit  of  humanity  to  be 
embodied  in  other  spheres  of  life  than  those  of 
dynasties  and  diplomacies  should  meet  a  fitting 
response,  and  that  ultimate  forms  be  organized  in 
which  it  can  dwell.  The  idea  that  each  human 
being  is  to  enjoy  his  full  share  in  all  that  makes 
humanity  great  and  beautiful  and  strong  is  here 
to  grow  brighter,  even  unto  the  perfect  day. 

Those  questions  which  are  imminent  even  now  in 
European  politics,  —  questions  of  forms  of  govern- 
ment, of  proprietorship,  of  freedom  of  speech  and 
the  press,  of  privileges  of  birth  and  of  class,  of 
ancestral  rights,  of  distribution  of  power,  of  civil 
and  ecclesiastical  jurisdiction,  —  are  settled  here ; 
and  they  interest  us  only  as  being  the  initial  move- 
ments of  that  tendency  everywhere  at  work.  Cer- 


SOCIAL    TENDENCIES.  22$ 

tain  external  institutions  are  not  in  harmony  with 
the  democratic  spirit  in  the  British  empire;  and 
if  the  democratic  spirit  is  to  have  sway,  those  in- 
stitutions must  go,  in  spite  of  conservative  fears 
and  reluctant  tenacity  of  possession.  "  It  is  im- 
possible," says  one,  "  to  reconcile  hereditary  privi- 
lege with  civil  equality  of  rights;  and  while  this 
antagonism  exists,  under  forms  however  venerated, 
there  will  always  accompany  it  a  sense  of  insta- 
bility and  feeling  of  uncertainty  with  regard  to  na- 
tional action,  and  a  never  ending  source  of  national 
conflict."  l 

In  America  we  have  done  with  discussing  the 
rights  of  Church  and  State,  of  king  and  subject; 
we  have  not  to  contend  for  theoretical  freedom, 
or  to  overthrow  hierarchies,  orders,  and  hereditary 
establishments.  We  begin  where  this,  as  an  ideal, 
ended.  Our  theory  assumes  the  essential  manhood 
of  every  man,  and  regards  institutions  as  but  the 
means  of  perfecting  that.  We  believe  that  every 
man  is  in  all  essential  rights  equal  to  every  other 
man ;  that  every  man  is  a  priest  and  a  king ;  that 
no  pope  can  add  to  his  royalty  by  any  conse- 
crating oil,  no  ruler  can  confer  upon  him  any  civil 
right,  no  outward  dignity  can  exact  his  homage. 
As  man,  he  enters  upon  an  inheritance  of  infinite 
freedom  and  unbounded  progress.  The  law  which 
he  obeys,  he  obeys  because  it  has  first  been  enacted 
in  his  own  soul ;  its  validity  is  not  in  any  outside 
ordinance,  but  in  the  tribunal  of  his  own  heart.  He 

1  The  Political  Life  of  our  Time.     By  D.  Nicol. 
'5 


226  SOCIAL    TENDENCIES. 

is  governor  as  well  as  governed,  law-maker  as  well 
as  citizen,  judge  as  well  as  executive.  Here  is  scope 
for  the  individual  and  social  application  of  every 
truth  in  education,  morals,  and  political  science, — 
for  the  application  of  every  ideal  that  human  aspi- 
ration has  ever  framed,  every  grace,  every  magna- 
nimity, every  service  that  the  lover  of  God  or  man 
has  nurtured  in  rarest  moments  of  insight,  or  in 
his  most  enthusiastic  dreams.  The  currents  of  hu- 
manly inspiring  life  flow  all  within  and  around ;  and 
so  far  as  a  man  is  open  to  their  influence,  he  rises 
into  elements  of  fresh  strength  and  use. 

The  central  principle,  then,  which  pervades  our 
national  organic  structure  is  manhood.  Its  po- 
litical expression  is  a  common-place  of  oratorical 
appeal ;  but  its  operation  as  a  beneficent,  conser- 
vating  principle  of  social  order  and  development  is 
not  yet  fully  acknowledged,  or  even  clearly  per- 
ceived. We  ought  to  see  that  it  is  not  destructive, 
but  constructive ;  not  to  be  feared,  but  welcomed ; 
not  disorganizing  and  disintegrating,  but  healing 
and  organific  in  all  its  normal  applications. 

The  difficulty  in  effecting  this  normal  adjustment 
of  life  to  the  political  theory  is  enhanced  by  the 
operation  of  influences  that  come  from  the  mighty 
revolution  taking  place  in  the  industrial  sphere. 
Thousands  are  made  rich  and  other  thousands  are 
made  poor  by  the  changes  that  take  place  in  the 
business  world.  A  millionnaire  is  made  by  some 
unexpected  rise  in  the  value  of  land,  some  discovery 
of  oil  or  coal  or  iron  or  copper,  by  some  rise  in 


SOCIAL    TENDENCIES.  22"} 

merchandise  or  in  stocks ;  a  city  suddenly  springs 
up,  and  a  farmer's  potato  field  is  of  more  value 
than  a  gold  mine;  a  fashion  changes,  and  some 
prosperous  manufacture  is  destroyed,  and  an  entire 
community  sees  its  daily  bread  suddenly  imper- 
illed ;  a  selfish  greed  of  some  railroad  or  bank 
officers  wrecks  the  institutions  intrusted  to  them, 
and  helpless  poverty  stares  thousands  in  the  face. 
By  the  division  and  sub-division  of  labor,  and  the 
dominating  power  of  capital,  it  gets  to  be  harder 
and  harder  for  the  workman  to  become  a  capitalist, 
or  even  to  save  a  few  dollars  from  his  daily  wages. 
The  temptations  to  extravagance,  to  display,  to 
luxurious  indulgence  are  multiplied  on  every  side, 
and  there  is  much  that  looks  like  a  justification  in 
fact  of  Carlyle's  expression,  so  dubious  in  point  of 
taste,  — "  the  universal  rush  into  the  cheap  and 
nasty  in  manners  and  life." 

Is  it  any  wonder  that  Young  America  sometimes 
gets  heated  up  beyond  the  boiling  point,  and  boils 
over,  with  much  foaming  and  sizzling  and  waste? 
Reverence  does  seem  to  be  at  an  awful  discount; 
and  modest,  patient  merit,  sitting  on  the  back  seats, 
appears  to  get  but  a  small  share  of  confection- 
ery and  ice-cream.  But  whatever  form  of  disorder 
and  discomfort,  even  direful  suffering,  may  result, 
it  is  only  a  temporary  and  transitional  concomitant, 
and  will  disappear  with  the  rise  in  the  general  level 
of  thought,  and  the  higher  tone  imparted  by  uni- 
versal education,  —  in  a  word,  by  the  prevalence  of 
the  principle  itself  in  its  full  working  power.  The 


228  SOCIAL    TENDENCIES. 

grand  army,  with  its  disciplined  ranks  and  orderly 
march,  comes  to  protect  and  upbuild;  while  the 
petty  marauding  and  pilfering  of  hen-roosts  and 
pig-pens  are  by  the  skirmishers  and  flying  scuds, 
the  "  bummers  "  of  the  host.  In  giving  all  a  chance 
for  wealth,  we  must  not  be  surprised  if  some  rich 
miner's  spouse  keeps  her  carriage,  and  smokes  her 
clay  pipe  as  her  thoroughbreds  sweep  her  along  in  all 
the  majesty  of  a  coach-and-six ;  if  some  suddenly 
created  millionnaire  adorns  with  a  necklace  of  gold 
nuggets  or  diamonds  his  favorite  hound,  or  takes  su- 
preme delight  in  seeing  wife  or  daughter  sparkling 
all  over  with  flashing  gems  like  a  phosphorescent 
wave ;  if  some  substantial  citizen  gains  an  entree  to 
some  foreign  court,  and,  his  early  years  having  been 
under  some  other  master  than  a  master  of  ceremo- 
nies, he  says  even  to  the  Pope,  "  Well,  old  fellow, 
how 's  your  wife  and  family?  Hope  they  are  well ;  " 
or  to  some  royal  exile,  as  one  of  our  well-meaning 
citizens  said  to  the  exiled  Louis  Napoleon,  who 
spoke  of  having  visited  our  country  twenty  years 
before,  "  I  hope,  sir,  we  may  have  the  pleasure  of 
welcoming  you  there  again."  But  what  matters  it 
that  there  are  some  exuberances  of  taste,  and  a 
boiling-over  of  individual  idiosyncracies  of  vulgar- 
ity and  conventional  disrespect?  They  are  only 
the  natural  results  of  a  want  of  culture  that  was 
the  normal  state  of  the  past. 

At  any  rate,  there  has  been  in  America  no  lavish 
bestowment  of  the  wealth,  the  lands,  the  honors,  and 
the  educational  means  of  a  people  in  order  to  give 


SOCIAL    TENDENCIES.  22Q 

an  exaggerated  cultivation  and  refinement  to  a  privi- 
leged few.  Grant  even  that  there  be  now  a  lack  of 
original  and  genetic  power  in  the  highest  depart- 
ments of  knowledge  and  art,  yet  the  average  level 
is  continually  becoming  higher,  and  a  better  tone 
pervades  the  common  life,  from  generation  to  gener- 
ation. And  the  highest  will  come  whenever  the 
superstructure  beneath  shall  be  fitted  for  it;  the 
dome  shall  crown  fittingly  the  vast  cathedral  of  hu- 
manity, —  a  dome  which  only  such  walls  could  bear, 
not  those  propped  and  suspended  by  artificial  means. 
We  want  no  elevation  produced  by  compression  at 
the  sides,  but  an  elevation  that  comes  from  the  build- 
ing up  of  the  whole  mass  with  solid  masonry  and 
architectural  skill.  The  thought,  the  manners,  the 
education,  the  literature  of  our  civilization  must  be 
based  on  the  manhood  of  the  whole  people,  on  the 
popular  life,  —  working  from  foundation  to  top- 
stone,  from  seed  to  tree,  from  tree  to  forest.  We 
do  not  look  for  a  few  isolated  and  gigantic  mon- 
archs  of  the  plain,  the  survivors  of  companions  long 
since  rotted  away,  perishing  in  their  feeble  and 
stunted  growth,  but  for  plantations  of  noble  trees 
over  vast  areas  of  field  and  hill-side,  prairie  and 
mountain-range,  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific 
shore. 

Were  they  not  so  saddening,  the  wailings  over 
this  state  of  things  from  that  once  glorious  prophet 
of  universal  brotherhood,  Carlyle,  would  be  highly 
ludicrous.  He  sees  only  "  the  going  of  democracy 
to  complete  itself  in  the  bottomless,  ...  a  free  ra- 


230  SOCIAL   TENDENCIES. 

cing,  not  in  shop-goods  only,  but  in  all  things  tem- 
poral, spiritual,  and  eternal,  —  a  beautiful  career  to 
be  flung  generously  open,  wide  as  the  portals  of  the 
universe ;  so  that  everybody  shall  start  free,  —  and 
everywhere,  under  enlightened  popular  suffrage,  the 
race  shall  be  to  the  swift,  and  the  high  office  shall 
fall  to  him  who  is  ablest,  if  not  to  do  it,  at  least 
to  get  elected  for  doing  it."  But  is  this,  in  the 
main,  so  bad?  Is  not  this  free  and  open  career, 
this  equal  chance  for  all,  what  the  ages  have  been 
striving  after?  That  the  way  to  knowledge,  the  way 
to  wealth,  and  the  way  to  honorable  position  should 
be  not  a  narrow  foot-path  to  be  trod  by  wayfarers 
in  single  file,  but  a  broad  avenue  wherein  every 
man  can  walk  without  jostling  his  fellow,  —  is  this 
to  be  sneered  at  and  ridiculed?  In  "  Sartor  Resar- 
tus  "  there  is  the  following  passage,  worthy  of  being 
inscribed  in  letters  of  gold  :  — 

"  Venerable  to  me  is  the  hard  hand,  crooked,  coarse ; 
wherein,  notwithstanding,  lies  a  cunning  virtue,  indefea- 
sibly  royal,  as  of  the  sceptre  of  this  planet.  Venerable, 
too,  is  the  rugged  face,  all  weather-tanned,  besoiled,  with 
its  rude  intelligence ;  for  it  is  the  face  of  a  man  living 
manlike.  Oh,  but  the  more  venerable  for  thy  rudeness, 
and  even  because  we  must  pity  as  well  as  love  thee  ! 
Hardly-treated  brother  !  for  us  was  thy  back  so  bent, 
for  us  were  thy  straight  limbs  and  fingers  so  deformed ; 
thou  wert  our  conscript,  on  whom  the  lot  fell,  and  fight- 
ing our  battles  thou  wert  so  marred.  For  in  thee,  too, 
lay  a  God-created  form,  but  it  was  not  to  be  unfolded ; 
encrusted  must  it  stand,  with  the  thick  adhesions  and  de- 


SOCIAL    TENDENCIES.  231 

facements  of  labor ;  and  thy  body,  like  thy  soul,  was  not 
to  know  freedom.  Alas  !  while  the  body  stands  so  broad 
and  brawny,  must  the  soul  lie  blinded,  dwarfed,  stupefied, 
almost  annihilated  ?  That  there  should  one  man  die  igno- 
rant who  had  capacity  for  knowledge,  this  I  call  a  tragedy, 
were  it  to  happen  more  than  twenty  times  a  minute,  as  by 
some  computations  it  does.  The  miserable  fraction  of 
science,  which  united  mankind  has  acquired,  — why  is  not 
this,  with  all  diligence,  imparted  to  all?" 

A  very  reasonable  question  this,  which  our  fore- 
fathers long  ago  asked  themselves,  and  which  they 
and  we  have  been  doing  our  best  to  make  the  asking 
hereafter  unnecessary. 

But  our  prophet  goes  on  in  these  words :  — 

"  Quite  in  an  opposite  strain  is  the  following :  '  The 
old  Spartans  had  a  wiser  method;  they  went  out  and 
hunted  down  their  Helots,  and  speared  and  spitted  them 
when  they  grew  too  numerous.  With  our  improved  fash- 
ions of  hunting,  now  after  the  invention  of  firearms  and 
standing  armies,  how  much  easier  were  such  a  hunt ! 
Perhaps  in  the  most  thickly  peopled  country  some  three 
days  annually  might  suffice  to  shoot  all  the  able-bodied 
paupers  that  had  accumulated  within  the  year.  Let  gov- 
ernments think  of  this." 

An  opposite  strain,  with  a  vengeance !  But  it 
was  the  strain  which  he  continued  for  thirty  years. 
It  was  because  he  had  no  faith  in  an  inspired  hu- 
manity; because  he  looked  not  to  the  many,  but  to 
the  few,  —  not  to  the  instinctive  powers  within  man, 
but  to  a  force  outside  of  him,  —  that  he  therefore  in- 


232  SOCIAL    TENDENCIES. 

voked  the  Alarics,  the  scourges  of  God,  the  besoms 
of  destruction.  Or  if  there  is  to  be  salvation  from 
chaos,  he  thinks  the  nobility  must  practise  rhythmic 
drills  with  their  peasantry  and  dependents  !  (Always 
higher  and  lower,  never  equality.)  He  wants  the 
"  good  old  English  gentleman"  to  appear  again  on 
the  scene,  and  servants'  and  laborers'  wages,  at  so 
many  shillings  a  day,  to  be  utterly  abolished.  He 
recommends  some  "combined  rhythmic  action"  to 
be  introduced  among  laborers ;  but  mark  the  con- 
dition, for  it  indicates  a  great  deal,  —  "  always,"  he 
says,  "  always  to  be  instituted  by  some  superiors 
from  above"  And  he  goes  on  to  say :  "  I  believe 
that  the  vulgarest  cockney  crowd,  flung  out  million- 
fold  on  a  Whit-Sunday,  with  nothing  but  beer  and 
dull  folly  to  depend  on  for  amusement,  would  at 
once  kindle  into  something  human  if  you  set  them 
to  do  almost  any  regulated  act  in  common,  and 
would  dismiss  their  beer  and  dull  foolery  in  the  si- 
lent charm  of  rhythmic  human  companionship,  in  the 
practical  feeling,  probably  new,  that  all  of  us  are  made, 
in  an  unfathomable  way,  brothers  to  one  another." 

Now,  how  can  men  be  made  to  feel  that  they  are 
brothers,  unless  they  are  treated  in  a  brotherly 
way?  The  "  practical  feeling  "  will  come,  when  the 
fact  is  realized,  —  never  before.  The  people  are  not 
fools;  they  are  not  to  be  impressed  very  deeply 
with  the  fact  of  brotherhood  through  rhythmic 
drills  and  gingerbread,  and  smiles  dispensed  by 
"  superiors  from  above."  When  the  institutions 
and  the  class  feelings  they  cherish  are  dissolved, 


SOCIAL    TENDENCIES.  233 

whether  in  the  weltering  chaos  of  Niagara  or  in  the 
warm  atmosphere  of  a  common  humanity,  there 
will  be  no  need  of  special  drills  from  noblemen, 
of  special  sugar-plums  from  high-born  ladies,  or  of 
special  grape-shot  from  kings. 

But  a  notable  phenomenon  presents  itself.  These 
superiors,  who  are  alone  to  be  intrusted  with  the 
direction  of  the  rhythmic  movement  of  this  dull, 
vulgar  set  of  artisans  and  laborers, — these  highly 
refined  men  and  gracious  ladies  have  no  "  rhythmic 
combination "  to  impart.  Their  condition,  after 
all,  is  not  an  enviable  one  even  in  the  eyes  of  their 
too  devout  worshipper;  for  Mr.  Carlyle  goes  on  to 
describe  in  pathetic  terms  their  melancholy  status : 
"  More  than  once,"  he  says,  "  I  have  been  affected 
with  a  deep  sorrow  and  respect  for  noble  souls 
among  our  aristocracy,  for  their  high  stoicism,  and 
silent  resignation  to  a  kind  of  life  which  they  in- 
dividually could  not  alter,  and  saw  to  be  so  empty 
and  paltry."  Has  it  then  come  to  this,  that  men  on 
whom  fortune  has  lavished  her  choicest  favors,  — 
houses  in  town  and  houses  in  the  country,  horses 
and  parks,  conservatories  and  yachts,  galleries  of 
art  and  libraries,  gardens  and  bank-accounts ;  men 
to  whose  education  all  the  ages  have  been  made 
tributary,  and  in  whose  behalf  the  millions  have 
been  stunted  and  subsidized,  —  that  these  men  are 
to  be  respected  simply  for  their  stoicism,  their 
noble  endurance  under  all  these  harrowing  burdens, 
and  their  stern  resignation  to  leading  "  empty  and 
paltry"  lives?  Yes,  it  has  come  to  this;  and  it 


234  SOCIAL    TENDENCIES. 

must  come  to  this.  Not  even  an  English  nobleman 
can  dodge  the  law  of  gravitation ;  not  even  he  can 
escape  the  operation  of  the  social,  human  Nemesis. 
"  If  one  member  suffer,  all  the  members  suffer 
with  it ;  "  and  if  all  the  members  are  suffering,  how 
shall  the  one  escape?  According  to  Carlyle,  to 
accept  the  new  civilization  is  to  "  shoot  Niagara." 
Well,  better  that,  if  that  is  the  only  way  of  right- 
ing things,  with  the  assurance  that  what  may  come 
after  that  plunge  is  just  as  much  under  the  impartial 
laws  of  a  universe  that  shines  and  rains  on  the  just 
and  the  unjust,  as  anything  that  came  before.  But 
obedience  to  these  laws  will  make  life  so  grand  and 
joyous  that  all  the  artificial  and  exclusive  forms  of 
aristocratic  pretence  shall  indeed  seem  "  empty  and 
paltry,"  a  dim  shadow  cast  by  the  light  which  they 
absorbed  but  could  not  reflect. 

The  present  condition  of  English  society  is 
treated  by  a  prominent  Review  under  the  head  of 
"  Social  Disintegration."  This  consists,  it  is  said, 
in  a  want  of  personal  acquaintance  and  intercourse 
between  the  higher  and  lower  classes.  Of  these  ex- 
tremes in  the  body  politic  the  writer  predicates  "  a 
mutual  ignorance,  and  an  incapacity  to  understand 
each  other,  that  may  almost  be  called  dangerous." 
Higher  and  lower  classes! — he  does  not  see  that 
they  already  understand  each  other  too  well.  They 
understand  each  other  sufficiently  well  to  know  that 
by  no  possibility  can  the  gulf  between  them  be  filled 
up  with  kindly  inquiries  after  one's  health  and  the 
sick  baby;  with  occasional  dinners  for  the  peas- 


SOCIAL    TENDENCIES.  235 

antry  and  mugs  of  foaming  beer.  The  patriarchal 
age  —  all  the  giving  on  the  one  side,  and  all  the  re- 
ceiving as  a  lordly  boon  on  the  other —  is  fast  van- 
ishing away.  The  old,  severed,  personal  ties  must 
be  replaced  by  others  as  real,  and  as  adapted  to 
present  wants  and  conditions,  as  were  those  of  old 
to  the  times  in  which  they  had  their  rise.  "  The 
moral  unity  "  of  the  people  must  be  established  on 
a  different  basis ;  and  when  once  established,  it  can 
never  be  secure,  until  the  laws  of  spiritual  gravitation 
have  produced  that  equilibrium  which  comes  from 
the  centre  of  gravity  resting  upon  the  lowest  point 
of  support. 

What  is  stable  equilibrium  in  natural  philosophy? 
Is  it  not,  that,  when  disturbed  from  its  state  of  rest,  a 
body  tends  of  itself  to  return  to  that  state ;  and  that 
this  will  always  be  the  case  when  the  centre  of 
gravity  is  lowest  in  its  position?  And  here  is  the 
precise  point  of  difference  between  the  old  and  the 
new  social  order.  In  the  old,  that  point  of  stable 
equilibrium  does  not  exist,  as  the  different  classes 
of  society  form  entirely  separate  organizations,  with 
views  and  interests  that  are  utterly  irreconcilable; 
while  in  the  new,  whatever  changes  take  place  are 
only  the  development  and  application,  to  the  various 
details  of  life,  of  what  constitutes  now  the  animating 
principle  of  national  existence.  But  the  vastest  ice- 
berg floating  in  unstable  equilibrium  in  the  Atlantic 
sea  must  oscillate  and  roll  over  until  the  eternal 
law  shall  vindicate  itself,  and  that  force  which  sun 
and  mote  obey  shall  accomplish  its  work. 


236  SOCIAL    TENDENCIES. 

A  further  indication  of  the  new  order,  and  a  deri- 
vation from  the  central  principle  of  manhood,  is 
the  idea  of  educated  labor,  —  the  reconciliation  of 
brain  and  hand,  of  thought  and  work,  Not  he  is  to 
be  envied  who  can  point  to  his  ancestor's  kingship 
in  the  social  realm,  but  he  who  has  found  his  work 
and  takes  delight  in  doing  it.  The  vast  needs  and 
opportunities,  the  open  career  for  every  talent  and 
faculty,  invite  to  work  for  some  noble  and  useful 
end.  To  be  a  worker  in  aught  that  ministers  to 
human  benefit  is  the  best  foundation  for  wealth  and 
position  in  the  world.  From  no  work-bench  or 
trade  or  employment  is  the  pathway  closed  to  him 
who  follows  the  clew  which  industry,  skill,  and  sci- 
ence put  into  his  hand.  In  the  very  place  where 
each  man  stands,  there  where  his  foot  is  planted, 
he  can  make  all  the  past  tributary  to  his  growth; 
and  from  the  sure  basis  of  Nature  and  practical  life 
he  can  become  the  thinker,  the  inventor,  the  cap- 
tain of  labor,  the  master-workman,  the  founder  of 
some  beneficent  industry,  some  wide-spreading 
means  of  good.  Foolish  notions  of  the  past  still 
trouble  some  foolish  heads ;  and  manly  work  is 
ignorantly  and  —  as  they  come  afterward  to  see  — 
stupidly  dodged.  But  the  fact  is  patent  that  the 
leaders  spring  up  from  the  ranks  of  toil,  from  a 
youth  nurtured  in  hardship,  from  the  healthy  lap  of 
Nature,  from  those  early  thrown  upon  themselves. 

Occasionally,  even  in  this  country,  a  survival  of 
the  old  civilization  crops  out  in  the  words  "  lower 
classes,"  "  the  common  mass,"  "  vulgar  herd,"  "  ser- 


SOCIAL    TENDENCIES. 

vile  occupation,"  "  mere  mechanic,"  etc. ;  for  our 
system  retains  some  of  the  virus  of  the  old  Greek 
and  Roman  times,  and  of  times  not  so  very  remote 
in  a  large  part  of  the  United  States,  when  to  get 
one's  honest  living  by  labor  was  to  be  a  slave ; 
when  no  one  performed  manual  labor  but  slaves,  or 
the  sons  of  slaves.  But  the  all-pervading  spirit  of 
our  modern  civilization  renders  it  more  and  more 
impossible  to  separate  learning  and  labor,  art  and 
every-day  practical  life.  The  new  civilization  is  not 
the  separation  of  thought  and  work,  but  their  recon- 
ciliation and  atonement;  it  is  not  a  pampered  man 
of  letters  on  the  one  hand  and  a  sordid  drudge  on 
the  other,  but  a  harmonious  development  of  brain 
and  hand,  of  body  and  mind.  So  far  as  this  ten- 
dency becomes  realized,  life  gains  in  breadth,  —  in 
extent  of  services  rendered  and  services  received ;  in 
fulness  of  aspiration,  and  in  earnest  devotedness. 
Says  an  inquirer  into  socialism : 1  — 

"  The  democratic  movement  is  just  beginning,  and  it  is 
rather  early  to  pass  sentence  upon  it ;  but  of  this  at  least 
we  may  be  sure,  —  that  the  people  who  think  that  the  de- 
mocracy consists  [alone]  of  vote  by  ballot,  and  that  every- 
thing else  will  proceed  in  the  old  style,  will  be  grievously 
disappointed." 

No,  it  will  not  proceed  in  the  old  style ;  neither 
will  it  proceed  in  the  style  of  the  anarchists  of  to- 
day, or  in  that  of  the  early  French  Revolutionists, 

1  An  Inquiry  into  Socialism.  By  Thos.  Kirkup.  Page  xxiil 
London,  1887. 


238  SOCIAL    TENDENCIES. 

intoxicated  as  they  were  with  the  first  vintage  of 
freedom  and  equality.  That  fire  has  not  indeed 
burned  itself  out,  but  it  has  burned  up  the  brush- 
wood and  the  combustible  materials  on  the  surface. 
Yet  the  central  fire  remains ;  and  in  its  heat  the 
huge  structures  of  evil  will  be  dissolved,  and  higher 
forms  of  social  life  will  be  the  heritage  of  the 
coming  generations. 

The  forces  now  at  work  are  not  to  be  judged 
of  by  the  outbursts  of  a  few  enthusiasts  enamored 
with  their  own  plans,  with  their  own  short-sighted 
view  of  human  history  and  human  development. 
They  must,  indeed,  speak  their  word ;  but  deeper 
voices,  like  the  sound  of  many  waters,  are  uttering 
words  of  better  cheer. 

What  are  some  of  these  encouraging  aspects? 

First,  there  is  the  tendency  to  give  free  and  unre- 
stricted action  to  natural  and  social  laws;  and  these 
carry  with  them  their  own  redeeming  power.  As 
the  domain  of  Nature  passes  over  to  man,  what  were 
once  exclusive  benefits  become  diffused  among  the 
many  as  a  common  possession;  the  universal  heri- 
tage enlarges  for  every  man.  As  obstructions  are 
removed,  the  new  organizes  itself,  and  needs  no  in- 
terference of  theoretic  systems  or  rhythmic  plans. 
The  organization  itself  is  beyond  human  insight 
or  human  skill,  but  it  is  gradually  being  developed. 
The  tendencies  of  our  modern  civilization  neces- 
sarily increase,  at  every  step,  the  mutual  depen- 
dence of  man  upon  his  fellow-men.  Society  is 
becoming  a  network  in  which  the  minutest  thread 


SOCIAL    TENDENCIES.  239 

cannot  be  spared,  and  the  least  stitch  is  essential  to 
the  perfectness  of  the  woven  whole.  If  you  are 
a  manufacturer,  a  railroad  director,  an  employer 
of  any  kind,  the  law  will  more  and  more  hold  you 
responsible  for  every  neglect  of  the  health  and  life 
of  him  whom  you  employ. 

Secondly,  the  legislation  of  every  country  that  has 
a  representation  of  the  people  is  directed  toward 
great  questions  of  social  interests  and  measures 
of  popular  benefit.  Thus,  as  the  latest  example, 
the  cable  telegraph  informs  us  that  "  Lord  Ran- 
dolph Churchill,  in  a  public  letter,  urges  the  Con- 
servatives, during  the  coming  session  of  the  British 
Parliament,  to  give  prominence  to  the  land-law  mea- 
sures for  the  reform  of  workingmen's  dwellings, 
laborer's  allotments  and  licensing,  and  laws  provid- 
ing for  shorter  hours  of  labor,  etc."  Yes,  this  is  to 
be  the  work  of  conservatives  themselves,  and  is  not 
to  be  left  to  the  radicals :  Balaam,  though  in  the  pay 
of  the  other  side,  must  bless  and  not  curse.  So  too, 
in  our  country,  the  people  themselves,  as  an  or- 
ganic body,  are  gradually  seeking  to  reform  abuses, 
to  prevent  injustice,  and  to  give  to  every  child  the 
means  of  education,  in  order  that  he  may  find  that 
career  in  which  he  may  be  most  useful  to  his  fellow- 
men.  As  a  sign  of  the  times,  let  us  hear  what  an 
eminent  citizen  said  in  a  letter  not  long  ago,  declin-  / 
ing  to  be  a  candidate  for  mayor:  — 

"The  public  schools  are  not  abreast  with  the  times, 
and  will  not  be  until  manual   training,  judiciously  added 


240  SOCIAL    TENDENCIES. 

to  our  present  system,  sends  out  all  boys  and  girls,  rich 
and  poor,  trained  in  eyes  and  fingers  as  well  as  brain,  for 
success  in  life.  .  .  . 

"  The  pauper  and  neglected  children  should  be  placed 
on  a  farm,  where  in  cottages  containing  not  over  thirty 
inmates,  and  under  the  charge  of  superintendents  who 
could  teach  different  branches  of  industry,  they  might 
grow  up  with  the  least  possible  institution  taint.  .  .  . 

"The  street  commissioners  need  strong  impulse  in 
favor  of  modest  streets  for  the  homes  of  plain  people 
in  suitable  locations.  .  .  . 

"  The  welfare  of  the  working- classes  needs  to  be  con- 
sidered with  devoted  attention.  .  .  . 

"  The  hours  of  labor  can  be  shortened,  especially 
where  skill,  education,  or  the  use  of  machinery  aids 
the  workingman.  .  .  . 

"  Many  small  play-grounds  for  children  should  be  pro- 
vided throughout  the  city." 

Now,  all  this  is  in  the  direction  which  a  true 
civilization  points  out,  and  whether  particular  meas- 
ures are  expedient  or  not  remains  to  be  determined 
by  those  whom  the  people  elect  to  do  their  bid- 
ding. But  a  force,  which  no  conservative  view  of 
the  limitations  of  municipal  power  can  turn  aside, 
tends  in  the  direction  of  doing  what  may  be  done 
for  the  common  benefit. 

But,  lastly,  the  modern  social  tendencies  are  the 
direct  outgrowth  of  the  spirit  of  Christianity  itself. 
Fifty  years  ago  I  said  in  an  oration  on  the  oneness 
of  Christianity  and  Democracy:  "  The  humble 
flower  has  found  many  to  interpret  its  silent  Ian- 


SOCIAL    TENDENCIES.  24! 

guage;  the  stars  have  had  their  prophetic  seers 
to  unfold  their  mysteries ;  and  now  the  common 
of  every-day  life,  the  despised  of  every-day  labor, 
have  found  their  priests,  and  in  Christianity  their 
secret  is  revealed.  A  true  democracy  and  a  true 
Christianity  are  one." 


16 


XIII. 

THE  NATION    AS  AN    ORGANISM   IN 
SHAKSPEARE. 

MR.  MULFORD  says  that  the  very  "  condition  of 
political  science  is  the  apprehension  of  the  truth 
that  the  nation  is  an  organism."  It  is  indeed  a 
vital  necessity  in  the  present  phase  of  economic 
thought;  and  it  may  not  be  out  of  place  to  show 
how  something  of  this  organic  life  reveals  itself  in 
Shakspeare's  universal  drama.  Not  that  Shak- 
speare  consciously  proposed  to  himself  any  such 
thesis,  or  had  in  view  any  such  social  ends  as  may 
be  made  out  to  be  the  drift  of  some  of  his  char- 
acters and  representations.  But  every  truly  great 
artist  in  accomplishing  one  end  accomplishes  many 
others.  He  presents  universal  truths,  and  expresses 
without  being  aware  of  it  those  vital  relations  which 
could  not  by  any  possibility  have  been  within  the 
range  of  conscious  vision.  Thus  Shakspeare  is 
the  unfolder  of  the  organic  life  of  the  nation  or 
State,  and  his  personages  cannot  live  and  act  with- 
out revealing  something  of  common  membership 
and  of  national  unity. 

This  great  dramatist  looks  upon  the  State  as  an 
organic  body,  —  a  social  form  deriving  its  powers, 
its  duties,  its  very  life-blood  from  the  one  spirit 


THE  NA  TION  AS  AN  ORGANISM.  243 

pervading  all  its  members.  Of  society  as  originating 
in  an  agreement  between  individuals,  or  constituted 
by  isolated  atoms,  he  knows  and  says  nought. 
"  Great  is  the  mystery  of  the  soul  of  State"  is  the 
thought  that  inspires  every  reference  to  men  as 
corporate  beings,  —  to  rulers  and  ruled ;  to  kings 
and  subjects;  to  princes  and  beggars.  There  is 
an  internal,  vital  connection  between  all  parts  of 
the  body  politic,  not  merely  an  external  associa- 
tion; from  this  vital  union  no  humblest  part  can 
be  severed  without  causing  suffering  and  anguish 
throughout.  As  in  the  human  body,  so  in  the  body 
politic  there  is  a  gradation  of  honor  and  dignity  de- 
pending upon  the  closeness  of  relationship  to  the 
common-weal  and  the  service  rendered  to  the  en- 
tire body.  The  disturbance  of  this  equilibrium  of 
powers  and  destinies  must  therefore  always  be  at- 
tended with  wide-spread  disaster. 

"  The  cease  of  majesty 
"  Dies  not  alone,  but  like  a  gulf  doth  draw 
What 's  near  it  with  it.     It  is  a  massy  wheel 
Fixed  on  the  summit  of  the  highest  mount, 
To  whose  huge  spokes  ten  thousand  lesser  things 
Are  mortised  and  adjoined  ;  which,  when  it  fall, 
Each  small  annexment,  petty  consequence, 
Attends  the  boisterous  ruin.     Never  alone  . 
Did  the  king  sigh,  but  with  a  general  groan."  * 

This  truth  is  stated  in  a  more  positive  form  in 
"  Troilus  and  Cressida."  The  wise  Ulysses,  declaring 
the  reason  why  Troy  still  stands,  says,  — 

1  Hamlet,  act  iii.  scene  3. 


244  THE  NATION  AS  AN  ORGANISM 

"  Oh.  when  degree  is  shaked, 
Which  is  the  ladder  to  all  high  designs, 
Then  enterprise  is  sick  !  " 

So  the  key-note  of  history  is  struck  in  "  Richard 
II.,"  where  the  summary  is  made  of  what  the  suc- 
ceeding plays  detail  with  such  dramatic  force :  — 

"  Oh,  if  you  raise  this  house  against  this  house, 
It  will  the  woefullest  division  prove 
That  ever  fell  upon  this  cursed  earth  ! 
Prevent  it,  resist  it,  let  it  not  be  so, 
Lest  child,  child's  children,  cry  against  you  '  woe  ! ' " 

No  Greek  drama,  with  its  ancestral  fate,  has  ever 
portrayed  in  deeper  colors  the  law  of  social  retribu- 
tion immanent  in  the  life  of  succeeding  generations. 

The  difference  between  that  government  which 
is  a  social  organism,  a  living  unity,  and  that  which 
is  a  mechanical  contrivance  made  up  of  pieces  that 
can  be  dealt  with  separately,  is  plainly  seen  in 
Shakspeare.  He  treats  the  State  as  a  common- 
weal, a  living  body,  no  part  of  which  can  be  punc- 
tured or  disturbed  without  disturbing  all  the  others. 
Every  part,  to  insure  health,  must  work  in  harmony 
with  every  other  part.  Each  organ,  tissue,  muscle, 
and  nerve  must  obey  the  common  impulse  to  main- 
tain circulation  and  reach  the  end  of  complete  life. 
No  organ  has  an  independent  agency.  As  a  states- 
man says  in  "  Henry  V.,"  —  < 

"  For  government,  though  high  and  low  and  lower, 
Put  into  parts,  doth  keep  in  one  consent ; 
Congreeing  in  a  full  and  natural  close, 
Like  music." 


IN  SHAKSPEARE.  245 

Still  further  to  unfold  the  vital  nature  of  the 
social  organism,  its  essential  oneness,  under  the 
"  divers  functions,"  is  illustrated  from  the  honey- 
bees, — 

"  Creatures,  that,  by  a  rule  in  Nature,  teach 
The  act  of  order  to  a  peopled  kingdom." 

In  a  monarchy  the  king  is  the  head,  and  no  one 
can  harm  him  without  bringing  "  the  whole  king- 
dom into  desolation,"  as  Henry  says.  But  the  sym- 
pathy between  the  different  members  of  the  same 
body,  however  named,  is  the  point  to  be  consid- 
ered. There  is  nothing  in  the  mere  name  of  king. 
Shakspeare  is  not  dazzled  by  the  glitter  of  royal  sta- 
tion ;  manhood  is  as  essential  to  the  king  as  to  any 
citizen.  His  pre-eminent  place,  indeed,  calls  for  pre- 
eminent strength  and  attractive  power.  The  mere 
outside  is  nothing;  the  title  brings  with  it  a  com- 
pensating trouble.  As  Brakenbury  moralizes  on 
the  situation  of  the  Duke  Clarence,  — 

"  Princes  have  but  their  titles  for  their  glories, 
An  outward  honor  for  an  inward  toil ; 
And,  for  unfelt  imagination, 
They  often  feel  a  world  of  restless  cares." l 

This  deposition  of  the  king  as  a  fetich,  and  this 
proclamation  of  a  common  humanity  appear  from 
two  quarters  as  opposite  as  the  poles,  and  yet 
each  utterance  converging  to  the  same  point,  — 
King  Richard  II.  and  King  Henry  V.  The  former, 
—  faithless  to  every  kingly  duty,  yet  fondly  trust- 
ing that  the  very  stones  of  his  native  kingdom  will 

1  Richard  III.,  act  i.  scene  4. 


246  THE  NATION  AS  AN  ORGANISM 

have  a  feeling  in  his  behalf,  and  rise  up,  armed 
soldiers,  to  fight  for  him,  although  he  himself  has 
alienated  every  soldierly  heart, —  asks  how  they 
can  call  him  king,  in  "  whose  crown  death  keeps 
his  court,"  who  suffers  hunger  and  thirst  like 
other  men,  and  who  "  feels  want  and  tastes  grief." 
Inasmuch  as  he  is  subject  to  these  human  limita- 
tions, he  asks :  "  How  can  you  say  to  me  I  am  a 
king  ?  "  How,  indeed  ?  And  so  he  gives  "  the 
pride  of  kingly  sway  from  out  his  heart,"  and 
washes  away  with  his  tears  all  oaths  of  allegiance 
and  fealty,  — 

"  With  mine  own  tongue  deny  my  sacred  state, 
With  mine  own  breath  release  all  duty's  rites." 

Still  further  to  unfold  the  lesson  that  a  kingdom  is  a 
kingdom  only  when  "law,  form,  and  due  proportion" 
are  kept,  there  is  that  striking  scene  between  the  gar- 
dener and  his  servants,  where  he  says  to  them,  — 

"  Cut  off  the  heads  of  too  fast  growing  sprays, 
That  look  too  lofty  in  our  commonwealth  : 
All  must  be  even  in  our  government." 

And  afterward  this  wise  gardener  says,  — 

"  Bolingbroke 

Hath  seized  the  wasteful  king.     Oh  what  pity  is  it, 
That  he  had  not  so  trimmed  and  dressed  his  land 
As  we  this  garden!  " 

Here  is  a  memorable  lesson  out  of  the  book  of 
royal  duties,  to  be  taught  by  a  player  from  his 


IN  SHAKSPEARE.  247 

pulpit-stage.  But  the  like  regal  ethics  come  from 
the  mouth  of  one  who  in  "  every  inch"  showed  him- 
self a  king,  —  the  chivalrous,  manly,  heroic  Henry 
V.  Shakspeare  shows  his  deep  insight  into  the 
difference  between  man  in  his  nakedness  and  man 
in  his  social  apparel  in  that  soliloquy  of  Henry 
before  the  battle  of  Agincourt,  when,  moralizing 
upon  his  condition  and  that  of  the  common  soldier, 
he  says,  — 

"  O  ceremony,  show  me  but  thy  worth  ! 
Art  thou  aught  else  but  place,  degree,  and  form, 
Creating  awe  and  fear  in  other  men  ?  " 

Because  the  king  is  so  differentiated  from  other 
men,  he  must  watch,  must  lead,  must  truly  be  a 
king.  Yes,  Shakspeare  saw  clearly  this  truth,  which 
Carlyle  illustrated  in  such  a  variety  of  ways,  —  "  that, 
first,  man  is  a  spirit,  and  bound  by  invisible  bonds 
to  all  men ;  secondly,  that  he  wears  clothes,  which 
are  the  visible  emblems  of  that  fact" 

But  clothes  are  only  rags,  unless  they  clothe 
something.  Whatever  commands,  must  have  the 
right  which  comes  from  fitness  and  power.  He 
who  assumes  a  divine  commission  must  be  divinely 
commissioned,  —  or,  woe  upon  his  head !  He  only 
can  lead  whom  Nature  sanctions  by  giving  him  in- 
sight, self-control,  the  magic  of  personal  authority, 
the  secret  word  at  whose  utterance  doors  fly  open, 
and  the  genii  of  Nature  throng  to  do  service.  King 
Richard  II.  looks  into  the  glass,  and  finding  no 
kingly  image  reflected,  dashes  it  to  pieces.  Henry 


248  THE  NA  TION  AS  AN  ORGANISM 

V.,  is  ready  to  die,  alone,  honorably  with  the  king. 
Every  nerve  within  him  thrills  with  the  feeling  that 
he  is  a  king. 

The  queen's  son,  poor  Cloten,  in  "  Cymbeline," 
finds  this  out  when  he  comes  in  contact  with  one 
in  whom,  as  Belarius  says,  divine  Nature,  the  god- 
dess, "  blazons  herself."  The  clothes-horse  and  the 
man  thus  reveal  themselves :  — 

Cloten.  Yield  thee,  thief ! 

Guiderius.  To  who  ?  —  to  thee  ?  What  art  thou  ?  Have  not  I 
An  arm  as  big  as  thine  ?  a  heart  as  big  ? 
Thy  words,  I  grant,  are  bigger ;  for  I  wear  not 
My  dagger  in  my  mouth.     Say  what  thou  art ; 
Why  should  I  yield  to  thee? 

Cloten.   Thou  villain  base,  knowest  me  not  by  my  clothes  ? 

Guiderius.   No,  nor  thy  tailor,  rascal, 
Who  is  thy  grandfather  :  he  made  those  clothes, 
Which,  as  it  seems,  make  thee." 

They  proceed  to  fight,  and  he  in  whom  the  divine 
goddess  Nature  "  blazons  herself,"  cuts  off  the  head 
of  the  clothes-dummy  and  throws  it  into  the  creek, 
with  the  contemptuous  words,  — 

"  Let  it  to  the  sea, 

And  tell  the  fishes  he  's  the  queen's  son,  Cloten. 
That 's  all  I  reck." 

And  when  told  that  on  account  of  his  dead  foe 
being  a  prince,  reverence  for  his  high  place  should 
lead  to  a  princely  burial,  this  peerless  son  of  Nature 
accedes,  but  says  in  his  off-hand  way,  out  of  "  an 
invisible  instinct,"  — 


IN  SHAKSPEARE.  249 

"  Pray  you,  fetch  him  hither. 
Thersites'  body  is  as  good  as  Ajax', 
When  neither  are  alive." 

But  Shakspeare  goes  further  than  the  verbal 
statement  that  mankind  reduced  to  a  state  of  pure 
nature  find  one  common  level :  he  puts  kings  and 
dukes  themselves  upon  the  stage  stripped  of  all 
their  dignities  and  ceremonies,  and  glad  to  find 
refuge  in  the  meanest  hut  and  on  the  dirtiest  straw. 
King  Lear,  the  representative  of  purely  arbitrary 
sovereignty,  shaking  off  all  cares  and  business  on 
younger  strength,  expects  still  to  keep  all  the  cere- 
monies, —  "  still  retain  the  name  and  all  the  additions 
to  a  king." 

It  cannot  be.  In  unclothing  himself  of  the  king- 
dom he  divested  himself  of  all  power,  and  became 
involuntarily  a  subject  to  that  "  Nature"  to  whose 
law  Edmund  voluntarily  bound  himself  as  his  god- 
dess. The  latter  rebels  against  ' '  that  plague  of 
custom,"  that  "  curiosity  of  nations,"  or,  in  other 
words,  that  strict  rule  of  civil  institutions  which 
made  him,  as  an  illegitimate  son,  no  lawful  heir  of 
his  father's  dukedom.  "  Fine  word,  —  legitimate  f" 
he  exclaims ;  he  will  trust  to  his  own  wit,  and  if  his 
"  invention  thrive,"  and  "  the  gods  stand  up  for  bas- 
tards," he  will  prosper  to  his  heart's  content.  No 
ceremony  shall  stand  in  the  path  of  his  advance- 
ment. He  fights  it  out  on  this  line,  with  a  courage 
and  an  inventive  grasp  worthy  of  a  better  cause. 
He  fails ;  for  what  is  the  wit  of  one  man  against  the 
omnipotent  laws  of  social  order?  What  is  the 


THE  NATION  AS  AN  ORGANISM 

keenest  intellect  against  the  on-striding  Nemesis  of 
outraged  moral  ordinance?  He  who  holds  in  pos- 
session half  the  kingdom,  of  which  Lear  had  dispos- 
sessed himself,  falls  by  the  hand  of  a  peasant-slave, 
who  rises  in  his  manhood  to  plead  against  cruelty, 
and  hinder  his  prince  from  tearing  out  the  eye  of 
the  helpless  Duke  Gloster.  "  A  peasant  stand  up 
thus?"  exclaims  the  Duke  Cornwall  in  disgust  and 
anger,  as  he  runs  at  him  with  his  sword ;  but  he  is 
himself  slain,  for  he  "  takes  the  chance  of  anger," 
and  throwing  away  all  the  advantage  which  cere- 
mony gave  him,  —  stripped  naked  of  that,  —  he 
goes  to  the  wall  as  the  inferior  man.  Upon  the 
three  daughters  of  the  king  poison,  steel,  and  the 
hangman's  ropes  how  all  their  natural  as  well  as 
social  virtues,  and  they  perish  by  deaths  as  miser- 
able as  ever  beset  the  meanest  of  villains  and  the 
lowest  of  slaves. 

Now,  what  have  we  here?  A  quarry  of  dead  game 
to  please  the  bloodthirsty  taste  of  that  bloodthirsty 
age?  A  holocaust  of  victims  to  satiate  the  degraded 
craving  of  that  London  populace  which  saw  men's 
ears  and  noses  slit,  their  heads  cut  off,  their  bodies 
burned  and  exposed  to  tortures  that  cannot  now  be 
described  without  making  the  flesh  creep,  —  which 
saw  all  this  not  on  the  mimic  stage  alone,,  but  in  real, 
every-day  life?  No;  here  we  have  one  common 
theme,  —  man  freed  from  social  bonds ;  man  re- 
duced to  and  falling  back  upon  his  natural,  savage 
instincts ;  man  with  none  of  the  defences  that  organ- 
ized society  —  with  laws,  well  ordered  government, 


IN  SHAKSPEARE. 

humane  institutions  —  throws  around  men  as  bar- 
riers against  the  encroachments  of  passionate  will 
and  arbitrary  injustice.  The  whole  play,  with  its 
characters  interesting  us  in  every  change  of  passion, 
every  least  utterance,  every  flush  of  countenance, 
every  accent  of  grief  or  joy,  hope  or  despair,  —  the 
whole  is  a  picture  of  social  misery,  and  of  the  bar- 
barism of  humanity  when  dissolved  into  its  primeval 
elements;  though  the  actors  were  dukes  and  dukes' 
bravest  sons,  kings  and  kings'  fairest  daughters. 

Thrown  back  into  the  old  Celtic  times,  who 
could  suspect  that  the  mirror  was  held  up  to  the 
poet's  own  age,  or  that  he  was  unveiling  the  depths 
of  disorganized  social  life?  Yet  it  is  a  thin  disguise 
which  is  continually  dropped.  Think  of  an  apothe- 
cary giving  "an  ounce  of  civet"  to  sweeten  a  poor 
king's  imagination !  think  of  Lear's  extemporized 
court  of  justice,  where  "  yond  justice  rails  upon 
yond  simple  thief,"  and  when  they  "  change  places, 
handy-dandy,  which  is  the  justice,  which  is  the 
thief  ?  "  where  the  rascal  beadle  is  bidden  to  hold 
his  bloody  hand,  —  bloody  with  lashing  a  poor 
strumpet,  —  and  the  usurer  hangs  the  cozener; 
where  one  is  told  to  get  for  himself  "  glass  eyes, 
and  like  a  scurvy  politician  seem  to  see  the  things  " 
he  does  not  really  see !  —  think  of  all  this,  and  the 
old  Celtic  film  and  background  disappear,  and  the 
poet's  time  sits  for  its  picture.  Shakspeare  was 
not  mindful  of  what  the  critics  call  local  coloring: 
verily  he  was  not,  —  for  the  great,  present  humanity 
pressed  him  in  on  every  side ! 


252  THE  NATION  AS  AN  ORGANISM 

In  this  play  the  entire  order  of  things  is  sub- 
verted. The  social  state  is  turned  topsy-turvy;  the 
king  is  forced  from  the  wild  natural  elements  to 
seek  the  shelter  of  a  hovel,  after  fleeing  from  his 
own  child's  inhospitable  roof  into  the  waste  and 
storm-pelted  heath;  the  would-be  friend,  giving 
way  to  impatient  anger,  becomes  the  worst  of  foes  ; 
the  loyal,  virtuous  son  of  wealth  and  station  assumes 
the  vilest  garb  and  name,  and  can  only  save  his  life 
by  abjuring  home  and  name  and  reason  itself; 
and  in  telling  what  he  will  do,  he  but  describes 
what  was  a  common  sight  in  Shakspeare's  own 
time,  the  glorious  Elizabethan  age :  — 

"  My  face  I  '11  grime  with  filth ; 
Blanket  my  loins ;  elf  all  my  hair  in  knots  ; 
And  with  presented  nakedness  out-face 
The  winds  and  persecutions  of  the  sky. 
The  country  gives  me  proof  and  precedent 
Of  bedlam  beggars,  who  with  roaring  voices 
Strike  in  their  numbed  and  mortified  bare  arms 
Pins,  wooden  pricks,  nails,  sprigs  of  rosemary  ; 
And  with  this  horrible  object,  from  low  farms, 
Poor  pelting  villages,  sheep-cotes  and  mills, 
Sometime  with  lunatic  bans,  sometime  with  prayers, 
Enforce  their  charity." 

So  low  is  this  scion  of  a  dukedom  reduced,  that  he 
welcomes  even  the  assumption  of  a  false  name,  — 
"  Poor  Tom  is  something,  Edgar  is  nothing," 

In  this  universal  subversion,  the  fool  is  the  only 
wise  man,  and  the  madman  the  only  sane  head,  — 
the  pivot  upon  which  the  final  success  depends. 


IN  SHAKSPEARE. 


The  fool  knows  why  a  man's  nose  stands  in  the 
middle  of  his  face  ;  why  a  snail  has  a  house  ;  why 
the  seven  stars  are  no  more  than  seven  ;  and  what  a 
man  will  learn  by  going  to  school  to  the  ant.  And, 
withal,  the  fool  is  loyal  as  well  as  wise  :  he  serves 
for  love  and  not  for  gain.  He  sings,  — 

"  That  sir  which  serves  and  seeks  for  gain, 

And  follows  but  for  form, 
Will  pack  when  It  begins  to  rain, 

And  leave  thee  in  the  storm. 
But  I  will  tarry  ;  the  fool  will  stay, 

And  let  the  wise  man  fly  : 
The  knave  turns  fool  that  runs  away  ; 

The  fool  no  knave,  perdy. 

No  knave,  and  no  fool  either  ;  for  he  sees  in  his 
glimmering  way  a  moral,  or  universal  lesson,  in  this 
particular  case,  and  he  draws  that  moral  :  — 

"The  man  that  makes  his  toe 

What  he  his  heart  should  make 
Shall  of  a  corn  cry  woe, 
And  turn  his  sleep  to  wake." 

A  fool's  doggerel,  indeed,  but  pregnant  with  all 
the  wisdom  of  modern  social  ethics.  From  the 
earliest  times,  society  has  made  a  toe  of  what 
should  have  been  the  heart  ;  and  it  has  cried  out, 
and  is  at  intervals  crying  out,  because  of  the  tender 
corn  which  is  afflicting  it  with  spasm,  and  which 
disturbs  its  sleep.  "  You  are  the  great  toe  of  this 
assembly,"  said  the  aristocratic  Menenius  to  the 


254  THE  NATION  AS  AN  ORGANISM 

loudest  of  the  popular  rabble ;  but  that  great  toe, 
the  real  heart  of  Rome,  trodden  upon  and  trodden 
upon  for  ages,  became  at  last  gangrened,  and  the 
whole  body  succumbed  to  death. 

Shakspeare  has  given  us  in  his  world-wide  re- 
presentation two  social  insurrections,  —  that  of 
Rome  in  the  third  century  of  the  city,1  and  that 
headed  by  Jack  Cade  in  the  fifteenth  century  of  our 
era.2  They  are  both  put  down,  not  by  a  righting 
of  the  wrongs  and  miseries  of  the  rabble,  but  by 
the  pressure  of  a  foreign  war,  and  by  that  appeal 
to  patriotism  against  a  foreign  nation  which  has 
always  quelled  the  fiercest  domestic  troubles.  The 
old  barrel,  ready  to  fall  to  pieces,  is  hooped  together 
by  this  device  of  uniting  against  an  external  enemy. 
Jack  Cade's  final  exclamation,  when  the  fickle  rab- 
blement  shout  for  the  king  and  Clifford,  who  is  to 
lead  them  against  France,  is, — 

"  Was  ever  feather  so  lightly  blown  to  and  fro  as  this 
multitude  ?  The  name  of  Henry  the  Fifth  hales  them  to 
an  hundred  mischiefs,  and  makes  them  leave  me  desolate. 
...  In  despite  of  the  devils  and  hell,  have  through  the 
very  midst  of  you  !  And  Heavens  and  honor  be  witness, 
that  no  want  of  resolution  in  me,  but  only  my  followers' 
base  and  ignominious  treasons,  makes  me  betake  me  to 
my  heels." 

In  Coriolanus,  the  cry  of  the  suffering  plebs  is 
well  voiced.  When  appealed  to  as  "good  citizens," 

1  Coriolanus,  act  i.  scene  i. 

2  Henry  VI.  Part  ii.  act  iv.  scene  8. 


IN  SHAKSPEARE.  255 

one  of  them  says:  "  We  are  accounted  poor  citi- 
zens; the  patricians,  good.  What  authority  sur- 
feits on  would  relieve  us.  If  they  would  yield  us 
but  the  superfluity,  while  it  were  wholesome,  we 
might  guess  they  relieved  us  humanely ;  but  they 
think  we  are  too  dear.  The  leanness  that  afflicts 
us,  the  object  of  our  misery,  is  as  an  inventory 
to  particularize  their  abundance;  our  sufferance 
is  a  gain  to  them."  And  when  told  that  the  pa- 
tricians "  have  most  charitable  care "  of  the  peo- 
ple, the  same"  citizen  replies :  "  Care  for  us !  True, 
indeed !  They  ne'er  cared  for  us  yet.  Suffer  us 
to  famish,  and  their  storehouses  crammed  with 
grain;  make  edicts  for  usury,  to  support  usurers; 
repeal  daily  any  wholesome  act  established  against 
the  rich,  and  provide  more  piercing  statutes  daily 
to  chain  up  and  restrain  the  poor!  If  the  wars 
eat  us  not  up,  they  will;  and  there's  all  the  love 
they  bear  us ! "  It  can  pass  on  the  stage  as  a 
representation  of  what  happened  two  thousand 
years  ago  in  Rome,  and  pass  without  question  as 
to  whether  "  there  is  any  offence  in  the  argument." 
But  that  cry  is  still  heard,  and  will  be  heard  until 
there  is  some  answer  given  that  shall  be  something 
more  than  a  sop  for  the  temporary  passion  and  the 
momentary  greed. 

Thus  is  to  be  seen  in  Shakspeare  the  clearly 
expressed  idea  that  the  men  called  a  nation,  a 
people,  a  State,  constitute  one  organized  form,  in 
which  each  part  has  life  only  as  it  shares  in  the 


256  THE  NATION  AS  AN  ORGANISM 

life  of  the  whole ;  and  the  life  of  the  whole  inter- 
penetrates and  sustains  each  individual  organ  or 
part.  The  king,  separate  and  isolated,  has  no 
power  or  even  existence  in  himself;  the  lowest  and 
meanest  part,  while  organically  related,  has  a  mean- 
ing in  Nature,  has  a  right  to  be,  and  shares  in  the 
universal  life.  The  most  potent  individuality  cut 
off  from  this  life  is  lost  as  a  moral  force.  Coriola- 
nus,  the  hero,  —  the  towering,  proud,  self-sufficient 
isolated  peak,  —  can  only  die.  Mr.  Mulford  says,1 
"  When  Caius  Marcius  turns  to  the  crowd  in  Rome 
and  denounces  them  as  the  detached  and  disorgan- 
ized rabble,  in  whom  there  is  nothing  of  the  organic 
unity  of  the  people,  the  disdain  of  the  Roman  is 
in  the  words,  '  Go,  get  you  home,  you  fragments !  " 
But  how  is  it  with  the  disdainful  patrician  himself? 
Does  not  this  very  disdain  cut  him  off  from  com- 
munion with  his  fellow-citizens,  and  is  not  there 
the  beginning  of  his  own  fragmentary  split?  The 
patrician  was  no  more  the  nation  than  the  mobo- 
cratic  citizen.  Had  this  rabble  joined  in  a  body 
the  Volscian  host,  where  would  have  been  the  na- 
tion? Coriolanus  joined  it,  and  the  nation  still  lived ; 
he  was  but  a  "  fragment,"  and  so  he  perished. 

At  that  period  of  regal  flattery,  of  royal  absolu- 
tism, of  adulating  homage,  Shakspeare  speaks  the 
word  that  pierces  through  the  high-flown  forms  and 
reveals  man  as  he  is  in  himself.  No  wonder  that 
Voltaire  is  disgusted  with  a  poet  who  can  make  a 

1  The  Nation,  p.  10. 


IN  SHAKSPEARE. 

queen  say  of  herself,  when  addressed  in  deepest 
grief  by  her  attendant  as  empress,  — 

"  No  more,  but  e'en  a  woman  ;  and  commanded 
By  such  poor  passion  as  the  maid  that  milks, 
And  does  the  meanest  chares." l 

In  that  age,  when  the  idea  of  man  as  man  had 
found  no  embodiment  in  word  even,  when  human 
rights  were  nothing,  and  privilege  and  rank  were 
all,  Shakspeare  makes  his  king  say,  —  and  from 
the  mouth  of  a  king  the  expression  would  easily 
escape  comment :  "  The  king  is  but  a  man,  as  I 
am;  the  violet  smells  to  him  as  it  doth  to  me; 
all  his  senses  have  but  human  conditions."  And 
that  well-known  passage,  since  become  a  common- 
place in  the  mouths  of  all,  but  then  a  strange 
sound  of  humanity  pleading  for  the  recognition  of 
oneness:  "Hath  not  a  Jew  eyes?  Hath  not  a 
Jew  hands,  organs,  senses,  affections,  passions?" 

Since  that  time  this  "  glittering  generality  "  has 
become  officially  proclaimed ;  but  almost  all  be- 
lieve it  to  be  only  some  flickering  from  the  blaze 
of  the  nether  pit,  or  some  artificial  light,  electric  or 
otherwise,  which  now  flares  up  dazzlingly,  and  now 
leaves  a  blacker  darkness  as  it  flickers;  and  that 
at  any  rate,  it  will  be  totally  extinguished  before  the 
clock  strikes  twelve.  Few  believe  in  it  as  the  sun 
about  which  all  the  planets  of  this  our  social  exist- 
ence are  turning,  and  which  is  to  work  out  revolu- 

1  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  act  iv.  scene  15. 
17 


258  THE  NATION  AS  AN  ORGANISM 

tions  greater  than  ever  science  or  philosophy  has 
dreamed.  The  true  manhood  of  man  is  the  prob- 
lem that  is  to  be  solved ;  to  this  every  discovery 
in  science,  every  stroke  of  the  steam-engine,  every 
added  means  of  education,  every  beat  of  the  great 
human  heart,  is  advancing  from  hour  to  hour. 

That  a  nation  is  a  living  organism,  Shakspeare's 
clear  conception  becomes  more  and  more  mani- 
fest; and  if  it  is  a  real,  organic  form,  one  part 
cannot  be  turned  from  or  hindered  in  its  proper 
function  without  the  entire  organism  being  there- 
by affected.  As  our  philosophic  poet  says,  — 

"  Let  our  finger  ache,  and  it  indues 
Our  healthful  members  even  to  that  sense 
Of  pain." 

Social  effort,  to-day,  is  based  upon  this  funda- 
mental truth,  —  the  oneness  of  humanity  as  a  liv- 
ing organism.  Says  a  careful  thinker,1  "  Not  each 
nation  only,  but  the  whole  human  society,  under  the 
conditions  which  now  prevail,  is  a  vast  organism, 
a  body  of  many  members  with  a  mutual  life."  In 
Shakspeare's  day  it  was  not  possible  to  see  this 
organic  life  of  the  human  race,  for  the  present  con- 
ditions did  not  exist.  But  the  organic  life  of  a 
nation  Shakspeare  did  see,  and  he  unfolded  it  with 
wonderful  clearness. 

In  1825,  in  his  "  Nouveau  Christianisme,"  Saint- 
Simon  advanced  this  ethical  statement  as  the  r£- 
sumt of  the  teachings  of  Christ:  "All  should  labor 

6  Inquiry  into  Socialism.     By  T.  Kirkup.     P.  xxiv. 


IN  SHAKSPEARE. 

for  the  development,  material,  moral,  and  intellec- 
tual, of  the  lowest  and  poorest  class."  And  this 
would  seem  to  be  the  nearest  expression  of  that 
apparent  paradox  uttered  by  Jesus,  that  if  the  feet, 
the  lowest  part,  were  right,  all  would  be  right;  and 
that  whoso  ministered  to  the  lowest  and  least  minis- 
tered to  him,  the  highest  of  all. 


XIV. 

THE    COMMON  REASON    IN  SOCIAL 
REFORMS. 

THE  principle  of  social  progress  may  be  formulated 
in  these  words  :  It  is  to  give  the  common  reason 
free  play  in  the  family,  the  school,  the  Church,  and 
the  State.  All  advance  has  been  in  this  direction. 
If  we  look  at  the  past,  we  shall  see  that  the  great 
secret  of  all  blundering,  all  harmful  legislation  has 
been  the  endeavor  to  promote  some  private  and 
partial  end ;  to  carry  out  measures  to  increase,  the 
prosperity  of  some  one  class  or  clique,  some  special 
order,  in  which  the  good  only  of  some  one  part  of 
society  was  supposed  to  be  wrapped  up.  Hence 
the  greater  part  of  legislation,  to-day,  should  aim 
at  the  removal  of  those  restrictions  which  in  the 
past  have  been  imposed  upon  the  many  in  the 
interest  of  the  few,  —  in  other  words,  to  promote 
the  highest  good  of  the  whole  body  politic. 

Plato,  with  no  conscious  limitation  of  view  in 
order  to  secure  exclusive  advantages  to  a  special 
class,  but  to  secure  what  he  thought  was  for  the 
highest  benefit  of  the  commonwealth,  ordained  that 
there  should  be  a  servile  class,  and  that  laborers 
and  artisans  should  not  be  regarded  as  citizens, 
or  have  the  rights  of  citizens.  Such  also  was  the 


COMMON  REASON  IN  SOCIAL  REFORMS.      26 1 

view  of  Aristotle  in  his  model  State.  Not  until 
the  American  democratic  State  was  established,  did 
the  essential  manhood  of  every  man  become  the 
basis  of  all  legislation  and  all  political  arrange- 
ments. It  was  the  victory  of  the  common  reason 
all  along  the  line  of  man's  relation  to  the  State, 
and  the  State's  relation  to  man. 

But  let  us  look  at  the  real  meaning  of  this  term, 
"  common  reason,"  which  is  something  more  than 
what  is  ordinarily  called  common-sense.  Buckle 
says  that  "  every  step  in  the  progress  of  science  is 
a  contradiction  to  common-sense."  He  means  that 
science  is  continually  reversing  the  appearance  of 
things  to  the  senses ;  and  so  it  is.  If  we  take  the 
testimony  of  the  eye  alone,  the  sun  goes  round  the 
earth ;  the  moon  is  as  large  as  the  sun ;  the  sky  is 
a  dome  over  our  heads ;  and  the  city-boss  the  very 
mainspring  of  all  political  movement.  But  this  is 
only  the  appearance  to  the  senses,  until  the  intellect 
corrects  it,  and  gives  us  an  insight  into  the  true  re- 
lations of  things  in  the  material  and  social  world. 

The  communis  sensus —  better  named  the  "com- 
mon reason  "  —  is  the  verdict  made  up  not  by  one 
faculty  alone.  If  there  is  something  else  that  en- 
ters into  Nature  and  life  than  the  impression  made 
upon  the  senses,  then  that  something  else  must 
be  called  into  play  before  a  true  judgment  can 
be  pronounced.  There  is  something  else ;  and 
when  there  is  the  consensus,  or  agreement,  of  all 
the  human  faculties,  then  is  common-sense  exer- 
cised. To  limit  it  to  what  commends  itself  to 


262  THE   COMMON  REASON 

vulgar  eye,  ear,  and  touch  is  to  violate  the  very 
conditions  of  its  existence  at  all.  It  is  the  har- 
monious adjustment  of  all  the  faculties  in  the  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  real  fact. 

Man  has  senses,  by  which  he  takes  cognizance 
of  external  things ;  he  has  understanding,  by  which 
they  are  arranged  in  orderly  sequence  and  depen- 
dence ;  he  has  moral  perception,  by  which  the  rela- 
tive value  and  different  relations  to  what  is  useful 
and  beneficial  are  established ;  he  has  also  spiritual 
perception,  by  which  all  these  are  conjoined  and 
subordinated  in  obedience  to  a  pervading  spirit  of 
wisdom  and  love,  —  and  the  harmonious  expression 
of  all  these  faculties  is  common-sense,  or  the  '  vox 
Dei.'  If  any  one  takes  precedence,  no  matter  how 
authoritative  be  the  expression,  the  universality 
or  commonness  fails.  The  voice  of  a  majority, 
however  large,  if  it  is  the  voice  of  a  particular 
faculty  alone,  is  one-sided,  partial,  disorderly,  —  vox 
Diaboli,  not  vox  Dei.  A  people  includes,  repre- 
sentatively, all  these  faculties ;  and  if  any  one  pre- 
dominate, whether  the  priesthood  or  the  masses, 
the  scholars  or  the  artisans,  there  is  distraction 
and  disorder.  There  are  estates  of  the  realm,  and 
no  one  estate  must  govern  exclusively.  How  the 
first  estate  governed  was  shown  before  the  French 
Revolution ;  and  how  the  third,  after  its  outbreak. 
Every  parliament  or  congress  or  general  assembly 
is  an  attempt  to  get  at  the  consensus  communis  of 
the  entire  body  of  the  nation. 

That  there  is  a  collective  wisdom  far  superior  to 


IN  SOCIAL  REFORMS.  263 

that  of  the  individual  judgment  is  affirmed  by  that 
extraordinary  professor  of  common-sense,  Aristotle, 
who  says  in  the  third  book  of  his  "  Politics  " :  — 

"The  people  at  large,  how  contemptible  soever  they 
may  appear  when  taken  individually,  are  yet,  when  collec- 
tively considered,  not  perhaps  unworthy  of  sovereignty. 
It  is  a  common  remark  that  those  entertainments  where 
each  man  sends  the  dish  most  agreeable  to  his  own  palate, 
are  preferable  to  those  furnished  by  the  most  sumptuous 
delicacy  of  individuals.  The  people  at  large  are  admitted 
to  be  the  best  judges  of  music  and  poetry.  The  general 
taste  is  thus  acknowledged  to  be  better  than  that  of  the 
few,  or  of  any  one  man  however  skilful.  The  excellences 
of  that  complex  body  the  Public  may  sometimes  surpass 
those  of  the  most  accomplished  prince,  or  of  the  most 
virtuous  counsel." 

But  from  this  "  Public  "  Aristotle  would  carefully 
exclude  all  laborers  and  artisans ! 

In  every  day  individual  life,  there  is  in  each  one 
of  us  what  may  be  called  an  invisible  parliament  or 
congress  of  representatives  from  every  department, 
—  even  from  the  remotest  part  of  body  and  soul,  — 
to  enact  laws,  issue  proclamations,  devise  ways  and 
means,  ascertain  our  revenue,  and  regulate  our  ex- 
penses. This  parliament  of  faculties  presides  over 
all  our  thoughts,  yet  it  is  embodied  in  no  formal 
statement;  it  is  back  of  all  our  conscious  will,  yet 
compels  no  individual  conviction ;  it  mingles  in 
every  exercise  of  judgment  and  reason,  yet  has  no 
visible  tribunal ;  its  verdict  is  final,  yet  it  is  enacted 


264  THE   COMMON  REASON 

in  no  formal  statute.  It  is  the  presence  of  what  may 
be  called  the  common  or  universal  reason.  As  the 
spiritual  Fenelon  says :  "  It  is  not  myself,  for  it  re- 
proves and  corrects  me  against  my  will.  This  reason 
is  the  rule  of  my  reason ;  and  from  this  every  wise 
man  is  instructed." 

This  also  is  the  great  rule  not  only  for  the  indivi- 
dual, but  for  the  social  order  and  common  life.     In 
social  order,  neither  anarchy  nor  despotism  can  en- 
dure, but  each  is  modified  and  restrained  by  this  con- 
trolling influence.     Amidst  oscillations  from  abnor- 
mal tastes  and  one-sided  tendencies,  this  omnipotent 
element  asserts  itself,  bringing  chaotic  strivings  in- 
to harmonious  adjustment.     As  the  atmosphere   is 
always  tending  to  purify  itself,  and  come  into  the 
condition  of  relative  proportion  of  gases  needed  for 
sound  lungs  and  healthy  breathing,  so  in  the  social 
world  the  moist  humors  are  absorbed,  the  chill  mists 
are   scattered,  the   acids   diluted,    and    effervescing 
substances  compounded  into  neutral  salts,  while  the 
work  of  reaction  and  ebullition  is  never  at  an  end. 
Parties  and  sects  are  bent  upon  making  every  man 
breathe  pure  oxygen,  but  Nature  knows  better  than 
that.     She  tolerates  for  long  no  exclusive  systems, 
laughs  at  all  panaceas,  and  quietly  sets  her  veto  on 
all  perpetual  motions.     Science  would  reduce   the 
world  to  a  laboratory  of  crucibles,  retorts,  and  ma- 
terial atoms,  while  piety  would  make  it  a  cell  for 
monkish  asceticism.     The  intellect  would    analyze, 
dissect,  and  question  without  end,  while  faith  would 
accept  everything,  believing  the  more  fervently  as 


IN  SOCIAL   REFORMS.  26$ 

the  incredibility  increases.  But  there  is  a  regulat- 
ing principle  which  permits  no  violent  tendency  to 
continue  unobstructed,  and  which  when  the  machine 
revolves  too  rapidly  for  safety  shuts  off  the  steam, — 
balancing  a  Luther  with  a  Loyola,  conservatives 
with  reformers,  eyes  looking  towards  the  sunset 
with  eyes  gazing  into  the  brightening  dawn. 

In  education,  see  how  speedily  extreme  theories 
are  brought  to  a  level  and  absorbed  into  the  general 
circulation,  all  the  good  being  assimilated  as  nutri- 
ment into  the  system.  Heated  brains  and  abnor- 
mal temperaments,  wild  philanthropists  and  zealous 
theorists  broach  their  one-sided  projects,  and  then 
are  heard  of  no  more.  But  much  that  is  good 
remains,  and  enters  into  life.  At  one  time  it  is  all 
study  of  the  languages,  and  at  another  of  science ; 
now  all  must  be  play,  and  now  all  hard  work ; 
now  everything  must  be  made  plain,  and  now  stated 
only  in  barest  outline ;  now  all  must  be  lecture,  and 
now  all  lesson.  A  better  culture  is  demanded  for 
the  body,  a  better  training  for  the  physical  man. 
Then  theorists  start  up  with  their  special  systems, 
enthusiasts  of  one  idea  follow  out  their  peculiar 
methods ;  and  soon  each  falls  into  partial  neglect. 
Base-ball  becomes  a  professional  knack ;  foot-ball,  a 
brutal  me!6e  of  muscle  and  brawn;  rowing,  an  un- 
natural training  of  a  few,  and  a  competitive  strain- 
ing even  to  complete  organic  collapse.  But  step  by 
step,  steadily  and  surely,  the  young  are  brought 
upon  a  higher  plane,  the  highest  thought  is  enlisted 
in  discovering  the  best  methods  of  training,  and  the 


266  THE    COMMON  REASON 

results  of  varied  experiences  are  diffused  and  made 
available.  In  other  words,  the  invisible  regulator, 
the  common  reason,  has  the  final  say. 

This  final  dictum  of  the  common  reason  prevails 
in  some  cases  where  we  should  scarcely  expect  to 
see  it.  Not  with  impunity  can  any  one  clique  or 
party,  any  one  sect  or  school,  claim  to  be  the 
exclusive  depositaries  of  truth.  To  assert  such  a 
claim  is  to  become  separate  from  humanity,  and 
to  cut  oneself  off  from  the  universal  inspiration. 
This  may  be  seen  in  what  appear,  at  first  sight, 
to  be  provinces  the  farthest  removed  from  any 
such  danger.  Said  once  a  learned  solicitor-general 
of  England,  in  the  House  of  Commons,  in  regard 
to  law  reform :  "  I  must  warn  the  House,  if  they 
attempt  legal  reforms,  that  they  must  not  allow 
lawyer  after  lawyer  to  get  up  and  tell  them  that 
they  are  not  capable  of  understanding  the  subject. 
They  might  depend  upon  it  that  if  they  could  not 
reduce  a  legal  proposition  to  the  plain  principles  of 
common-sense  comprehensible  to  persons  of  ordi- 
nary intelligence,  the  defect  was  that  it  was  a  tech- 
nical system  invented  for  the  creation  of  costs,  and 
not  to  promote  the  administration  of  justice."  This 
is  in  harmony  with  what  an  eminent  professor  of 
jurisprudence  (Professor  Grote)  says:  "Law  is  the 
public  reason  of  a  society  participated  in,  more  or 
less,  by  the  mass  of  individuals." 

We  may  say,  indeed,  of  all  sciences,  —  except 
those  involving  the  higher  mathematics,  —  that  if 
they  cannot  be  reduced  to  universal  principles  com- 


IN  SOCIAL  REFORMS.  267 

prehensible  to  sound  minds  and  upright  hearts, 
they  are  but  conventional  and  technical  terminolo- 
gies, which  will  soon  be  superseded.  For  science 
does  not  contradict,  it  formulates,  facts  according  to 
the  principles  of  the  common  reason.  It  confirms 
and  establishes  them  on  an  immovable  basis;  it 
shows  order  in  the  apparent  disorder.  As  a  phil- 
osophical observer,  in  describing  the  mer-de-glace 
at  Chamouni,  says,  — 

"  At  first  the  ice  presented  an  appearance  of  utter  con- 
fusion ;  but  we  soon  reached  a  position  where  the  mechan- 
ical conditions  of  the  glacier  revealed  themselves,  and 
where  we  might  learn  —  had  we  not  known  it  before  — 
that  confusion  is  merely  the  unknown  mixture  of  laws, 
and  becomes  order  and  beauty  when  we  rise  to  their 
comprehension. 

This  is  the  "  harmony  not  understood,"  which 
belongs  to  the  entire  created  universe  in  its  mi- 
nutest part.  This  is  the  Cosmos,  or  beautiful  order, 
which  if  science  does  not  give  us,  it  gives  us  noth- 
ing really  worth  having.  But  it  does  always  end  in 
establishing  for  us  what  was  already  prophesied  in 
the  higher  intuitions,  —  in  the  demand  for  order, 
symmetry,  law. 

Look  at  what  we  call  law.  The  State  passes  cer- 
tain laws,  —  for  what  professed  end  ?  To  carry  out 
the  ends  of  justice,  —  that  is,  to  carry  out  ends 
which  have  their  existence,  their  foundation,  in 
something  which  precedes  the  laws,  and  which  calls 
them  into  being.  The  law,  therefore,  does  not 


268  THE   COMMON  REASON 

create  justice ;  but  justice  creates  the  law,  of  which 
it  is  supposed  to  be  the  embodiment  Justice  is  the 
divine  reality,  and  abides  in  the  souls  of  those  who 
seek  to  make  it  a  concrete,  actual  thing.  Back  of 
all  State  enactments  is  that  justice  which  is  univer- 
sal and  divine,  which  gives  them  their  justification 
and  their  force.  A  calm,  philosophic  observer  says 
of  the  legislation  of  Great  Britain  at  the  present 
time,  — 

"  The  revolution  which  is  being  effected  in  due  course 
of  law  is  the  gradual  but  complete  transference  of  the 
source  of  legislation  from  the  select  ruling  portion  of 
society  to  the  whole  body  of  the  people.  Instead  of  law, 
as  of  old,  flowing  down  from  king,  lords,  and  commons  to 
the  people,  law  is  now  impelled  in  an  upward  flow  from 
the  people  to  the  commons,  lords,  and  monarch."  l 

So  it  is  with  the  higher  philosophy.  "  True  phi- 
losophy," it  has  been  said,  "  accepts,  as  given,  the 
great  and  indestructible  convictions  of  our  race, 
and  the  language  in  which  these  are  expressed ; 
and  in  place  of  denying  or  obliterating  them,  she 
endeavors  rationally  to  explain  and  justify  them."3 
Such  is  the  work  of  philosophy  to-day  in  every 
department,  —  not  rudely  sneering  or  denying,  but 
seeking  those  broader  statements  which  underlie 
every  universal  conviction  from  the  earliest  historic 
times.  The  old  philosopher  Heraclitus  said  that  "it 
behooves  us  all  to  follow  the  common  reason  of  the 

1  The  Political  Life  of  our  Time.     By  D.  Nichol.     Vol.  ii.  p.  336. 
z  Blackwood's  Magazine,  April,  1838,  —  "Consciousness." 


IN  SOCIAL   REFORMS.  269 

world "  rather  than  private  and  individual  idiosyn- 
cracies;  and  this  is  true  in  art,  in  literature,  in  every 
sphere  in  which  universal  principles  of  truth  and 
beauty  manifest  themselves.  The  final  verdict  in 
the  ages  is  made  up  from  the  consensus  of  those  who 
are  exponents  of  this  universal  wisdom,  or  reason. 

Goethe  uttered  many  a  maxim  pregnant  with 
wisdom,  but  nothing  wiser  than  when  he  said, 
"The  best  way  to  preserve  our  common-sense  is 
to  live  in  the  universal  way  with  multitudes  of 
men."  The  anchorite  and  the  nun  become  excep- 
tional, and  they  pay  the  penalty.  The  martyrs  are 
not  always  martyrs  to  truth  and  righteousness,  but 
often  to  their  own  one-sided  interpretation  of  truth, 
and  sometimes  to  their  own  self-assertion  and  self- 
conceit.  It  is  a  nice  line  that  separates  the  pure 
impersonal  devotion  to  principle  from  the  love  of 
singularity,  the  desire  for  self-prominence  and  self- 
extension.  Pretentious  vanity,  exclusive  assump- 
tion, even  under  the  garb  of  single-minded  service, 
gets  persistently  rebuffed,  and  wonders  why  its 
claims  are  so  coldly  met  or  contemptuously  re- 
jected. Why  should  such  well-meaning  exertion 
and  earnest  good-will  not  meet  with  a  better  re- 
ward ?  The  sufferer  does  not  see ;  for  he  does  not 
perceive  that  his  own  atmosphere  envelopes  those 
with  whom  he  comes  in  contact,  and  that  this  at- 
mosphere is  one  of  offensive  personal  assumption, 
perhaps  of  exclusiveness  and  contempt.  We  used 
to  hear,  more  than  we  do  to-day,  the  woman  earnest 
for  reform  jeered  at  as  strong-minded ;  and  charges 


2/O  THE   COMMON  REASON 

were  made  as  to  the  color  of  her  stockings,  when- 
ever a  woman  was  suspected  of  knowing  a  little 
more  than  the  average  man.  I  have  sometimes  tried 
to  think  that  this  was  the  growling  way  which  some 
men  had  of  expressing  their  belief  that  the  highest 
womanly  excellence  is  a  loving  heart  predominat- 
ing every  other  faculty,  original  or  acquired.  The 
good  masculine  souls  did  not  want  the  fair  creatures 
to  become  "too  good  for  human  nature's  daily  food." 
It  was  not  for  woman's  interest,  you  know,  and  wo- 
men would  be  the  greatest  sufferers  from  it  in  the 
long  run !  Well,  it  is  a  woman  who  gives  this 
charming  description  of  Mrs.  Somerville,  as  "  not 
dwelling  aloof  from  common  men  and  women,  but 
throwing  herself  into  the  interests  of  those  around 
her,  conversing  with  each  in  his  or  her  own  way; 
being  the  kindest  and  pleasantest  member  of  so- 
ciety, —  a  sad  stone  of  stumbling  to  those  who 
delight  to  depict  that  heraldic  creature  '  the  strong- 
minded  female,'  and  to  those  who  have  established 
it  as  a  fact  that  the  knowledge  of  Euclid  is  incom- 
patible with  the  domestic  affections." 

In  regard  to  the  social  relations  and  duties  of 
woman,  common  reason  has  had,  at  last,  something 
to  say.  It  seems  now  so  much  a  matter  of  course 
for  men  and  women  to  sit  together,  study  together, 
and  work  together,  that  we  forget  from  what  she 
has  been  rescued,  in  spite  of  the  protests  of  the 
colossal  intellects  and  the  great  minds  in  Church 
and  State,  —  that  "  chosen  remnant  "  of  the  great 
and  good,  so  dear  to  Matthew  Arnold's  heart.  Why, 


IN  SOCIAL   REFORMS.  2?  I 

the  great  General  Assembly  of  the  Church  of  Scot- 
land, no  longer  ago  than  1649,  passed  a  law  that 
all  women  must  sit  together,  and  sit  "  laigh "  in 
the  kirk.  But  as  sitting  "  low  "  was  found  conducive 
to  a  comfortable  nap,  "  a  church  officer  was  ordered 
to  go  through  the  church  with  a  long  pole,  to 
remove  the  plaids  from  the  heads  of  all  women, 
whether  wives  or  maids."  The  New  England  tith- 
ing-man,  who  was  the  terror  of  boys  and  girls, 
had  thus  a  very  respectable  ancestry,  and  was 
not  the  native  growth  of  puritanic  Massachusetts 
or  Connecticut.  Of  course,  if  all  the  women  are 
put  away  by  themselves,  and  all  the  boys  by  them- 
selves, they  must  have  special  legislation  to  meet 
their  special  cases ;  but  come  down  to  the  hard  pan 
of  common  reason,  and  no  legislation  whatever  is 
needed. 

In  whatever  direction  we  look,  then,  we  see  that 
it  is  fidelity  to  universal  principles  that  constitutes 
real  greatness  and  worth.  In  these  only  are  all 
men  at  home.  As  he  gives  expression  to  these, 
the  poet  meets  the  deepest  response  from  the 
hearts  of  his  fellows;  and  as  the  exponent  of 
these,  men  crown  him  king,  and  own  themselves 
his  obedient  subjects.  The  orator  utters  that 
which  all  were  waiting  to  hear,  and  wanting  to 
express.  The  heroism,  tHe  wisdom,  the  truth  is 
theirs  also,  and  they  breathe  one  common  air. 
His  word  is  power,  because  he  appeals  to  the 
universal  heart.  He  stands  there  to  show  off  no 
individual  graces  or  personal  excellences  or  su- 


2/2  THE   COMMON  REASON 

perior  wit.  He  gives  up  his  own  life,  and  so 
receives  the  life  of  all.  True,  true  everywhere 
is  that  utterance  of  Fichte,  — 

"  Whatever  a  man  may  do,  so  long  as  he  does  it  from 
himself,  by  himself,  and  through  his  own  counsel,  it  is 
vain,  and  will  sink  to  nothing.  All  things  new,  great,  and 
beautiful  which  have  appeared  in  the  world  since  its  be- 
ginning, and  those  which  will  appear  until  its  end,  have 
appeared  and  will  appear  through  the  divine  or  [common- 
human]  idea." 

The  pet  notion,  the  peculiar  theory,  however 
grand,  however  expressive  of  personal  and  indi- 
vidual power,  comes  to  nought.  That  which  em- 
bodies the  ideas  of  beauty,  of  justice,  of  wisdom 
which  are  in  all  souls  must  endure  so  long  as 
that  which  inspires  them,  and  that  from  which 
they  draw,  continues  to  endure.  "It  is  character- 
istic of  the  highest  truth,"  says  one,  "  to  be  acces- 
sible to  common  minds,  and  inaccessible  only  to 
ambitious  ones."  1 

Here,  now,  we  strike  the  key-note  of  Shak- 
speare's  greatness  and  lasting  power.  He  has  no 
idiosyncracy,  no  favorite  string,  no  recurring  strain 
from  his  own  individual  likes  and  dislikes;  no 
pet  theory  of  man  or  woman ;  no  special  cause 
or  doctrine  to  advocate,  whether  in  Church  or 
State.  He  gives  every  one  a  chance  to  speak 
through  him,  as  if  he  were  simply  the  conduit 
for  his  or  her  individual  being.  Hence  he  is  the 
i  The  Secret  of  Swedenborg.  By  Henry  James. 


IN  SOCIAL  REFORMS.  273 

interpreter  of  humanity  and  not  of  any  particular 
class  or  clique,  or  of  odd  specimens  of  men  and 
women.  He  hits  the  golden  mean.  Mr.  Blackie 
sums  up  the  ethics  of  Aristotle  thus :  — 

"  Virtue  is  a  medium,  a  balance,  a  proportion,  a  sym- 
metry, a  harmony,  a  nice  adjustment  of  the  force  of  each 
part  in  reference  to  the  calculated  action  of  the  whole." 

Now,  Shakspeare  makes  the  disturbance  of  this 
balance,  this  harmony,  the  theme  of  all  his  tragedy, 
whether  as  applied  to  the  general  State,  the  Com- 
monwealth, or  that  individual  State,  that  private 
common-weal  of  which  each  man  is  a  citizen,  and 
in  which  he  ought  to  rule.  To  preserve  this  bal- 
ance is  the  secret  of  all  happiness,  of  all  true  well- 
being.  "  It  is  no  mean  happiness  to  be  seated  in 
the  mean;  superfluity  comes  sooner  by  white  hairs, 
but  competency  lives  longer,"  —  this  is  the  leading 
theme,  with  infinite  variations. 

This  wisdom  comes  not  from  any  intellectual 
elevation,  but  from  a  dramatic  sympathy  with  hu- 
manity in  its  various  developments.  It  is  the  ethics 
which  lives  in  those  proverbs  that  grow  up,  one 
knows  not  how  or  where,  in  the  heart  of  the  people, 
and  finds  expression  in  the  maxim  that  embodies 
the  experience  of  entire  generations.  Its  power 
is  in  its  universality  and  its  commonness.  It  is  the 
wisdom  of  all,  —  that  communis  sensus  which,  after 
all,  is  the  highest  and  the  last  appeal.  No  man  can 
be  wiser  than  humanity;  and  as  the  exponent  of 

18 


274  THE   COMMON  REASON 

this  purely  human,  universal  (and  because  human 
and  universal,  also  divine)  wisdom,  Shakspeare  re- 
mains unreached  and  alone. 

In  admitting  this,  Riimelin,1  who  loses  no  oppor- 
tunity to  depreciate  Shakspeare,  really  concedes  to 
him,  while  depreciating  him,  the  highest  claim  as  a 
moralist ;  and  he  can  but  grant  the  vast  superiority 
of  Shakspeare,  in  this  respect,  over  Schiller  and 
Goethe.  "  Their  maxims,"  he  says,  "  occupy  a 
different  sphere ;  and  Goethe's,  especially,  rest 
upon  an  individual  point  of  view  wholly  foreign 
from  the  folk-wisdom.  In  Shakspeare,  on  the 
contrary,  we  perceive  a  noteworthy  trait  of  con- 
geniality with  this  spirit  of  the  people,  not  in  any 
one  peculiar  direction,  but  in  that  wisdom  as  a 
whole."  What  greater  praise  could  be  given  to 
Shakspeare's  ethical  genius? 

It  is  indeed  worth  the  while  to  study  this  body  of 
natural  divinity,  as  it  may  be  called,  wherein  the 
concentrated  wisdom  of  humanity  lives  in  forms 
to  which  the  highest  intuitive  perception,  united 
with  the  most  genial  poetic  power,  has  given  an 
enduring  embodiment.  These  thickly  strewn  say- 
ings sound  often  like  quoted  proverbs,  but  they  are 
from  Shakspeare's  own  mint ;  as,  — 

"  Thrift  is  blessing,  if  men  steal  it  not." 

"To  hear  with  eyes  belongs  to  love's  fine  wit." 

"Will  is  deaf,  and  heeds  no  heedful  friends." 

"  It  is  an  heretic  that  makes  the  fire,  not  he  which  burns  in 't." 

1  RtfMELiN  :  Shakspeare  Studien,  p.  166. 


IN  SOCIAL  REFORMS.  2?$ 

"  Wishers  were  ever  fools." 

"  In  poison  there  is  physic." 

"  Good  words  are  better  than  bad  strokes." 

"  He  that  loves  to  be  flattered  is  worthy  of  the  flatterer." 

"  There  is  some  soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil, 
Would  men  observingly  distil  it  out." 

"  Love  yourself ;  and  in  that  love, 

Not  unconsidered  leave  your  honor." 
"  Best  men  are  moulded  out  of  faults." 
"  They  love  not  poison  that  do  poison  need." 

Thousands  of  like  significance  could  be  quoted, — 
all  springing  from  the  character,  the  time,  the  place, 
and  the  occasion,  and  all  sounding  as  if  the  spirit  of 
human  wisdom  itself  had  brooded  for  generations 
over  the  utterance. 

We  are  often  repelled  when  these  representations 
of  dramatic  power  are  made,  by  the  extravagant 
claims  that  are  set  up  for  the  individual  man, 
William  Shakspeare,  —  as  if  he  must  have  been 
himself  so  very  wise  and  so  very  good  and  so 
very  great  in  his  own  personal  character  and  life. 
But  his  real  value  to  us  is  that  he  could  throw 
himself,  such  as  he  was,  into  every  form  that  he 
summoned  into  his  presence.  His  own  self  was 
merged  for  the  time  in  the  self  of  another,  and 
by  losing  himself  he  gained  humanity.  He  carried 
into  manhood  that  faculty  which  belongs  to  the 
child,  —  "the  six  years'  darling  of  a  pigmy  size." 

"  See  at  his  feet  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 


2/6  THE   COMMON  REASON 

Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art,  — 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral. 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song; 

Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 

To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife. 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 

The  little  actor  cons  another  part, 

Filling  from  time  to  time  his  humorous  stage 

With  all  the  persons  down  to  palsied  age, 

That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage,  — 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation." 

That  free  joy  and  sympathy  with  every  form  of 
being;  that  abandonment  to  the  impression  of  Na- 
ture and  life  which  gave  rise  to  mythology,  and 
which  is  the  soul  of  all  the  creations  of  every 
child,  —  this  gave  us  the  Shakspearian  drama,  with 
all  its  lessons  of  the  truth  that  lies  at  the  basis  of 
every  fact  and  of  every  emotion. 

Because  of  the  influence  of  this  common  reason, 
we  find  that  in  literature  the  best  survives;  that 
evermore  there  is  a  winnowing  process  going  on 
by  which  the  solid  grain  is  saved,  and  the  dust 
and  chaff  and  lighter  matter  are  sent  whirling  into 
the  great  cavern  of  forgetfulness,  never  again  to 
mislead  or  vex  human  souls.  What  is  this  grand 
winnowing  machine  on  which  there  is  no  patent 
for  exclusive  use,  and  from  which  there  is  no 
possible  way  of  escape?  Time,  you  say.  But 


IN  SOCIAL  REFORMS.  277 

time  is  only  the  name  given  to  a  succession  of 
changes.  There  is  no  such  entity  as  time;  but 
there  is  a  communis  sensus,  a  divine  reason,  im- 
manent in  human  things  and  human  souls,  which 
forever  acts,  and  from  which  there  is  no  appeal. 

This  common  reason  of  the  world  is  expressed, 
too,  in  its  proverbs,  which  sound  the  entire  gamut 
of  human  experience.  In  the  derivation  of  the 
word  "  proverb,"  there  is  the  recognition  of  this  re- 
lation to  a  universal  wisdom.  When  a  man  uses 
such  a  saying,  he  uses  pro  verbo  (instead  of  his  own 
word)  every  man's  word:  he  does  not  carry  his 
own  special  lantern,  but  opens  a  shutter  and  lets  in 
the  sunlight;  he  merges  self  in  the  all-comprehend- 
ing self  of  humanity;  he  utters  not  his  individual 
truth,  but  the  conviction  of  his  fellows.  So,  too, 
with  the  legends,  the  sagas,  the  mythologies  of  all 
nations :  they  are  not  the  product  of  a  few  wise 
heads,  select  literary  students,  or  rare  scholars, 
but  the  product  of  a  Universal  Intelligence,  whose 
depths  no  man  has  sounded,  —  waifs  cast  upon  the 
shore  by  the  all-surrounding  ocean  of  truth ;  reve- 
lations made  by  a  general  daylight,  not  by  any 
number  of  coruscating  meteors  or  winking  stars. 

This  communis  sensus,  then,  this  divine  reason  in 
the  community,  is  the  real  source  of  all  social 
development;  and,  as  it  is  trusted  to,  it  gives  a 
cheering  confidence  in  the  accomplishment,  not 
perhaps  of  our  short-sighted  schemes,  but  of  all  the 
purposes  of  higher  good  that  we  cherish  for  our- 
selves and  our  fellow-men.  The  fine  scholar  trusts 


2/8  THE    COMMON  REASON 

in  the  few  trained  souls  and  in  the  chosen  few. 
"  The  mass  of  the  people,"  says  one  of  England's 
ripest  scholars,  "  look  for  guidance  in  political  as 
in  other  matters  to  their  natural  social  leaders,  to 
their  aristocracy.  Any  government  founded  on  the 
idea  that  people  ever  do,  or  ever  can,  govern  them- 
selves is  a  delusion."  But  what  shall  we  poor 
souls  do  who  have  no  aristocracy?  My  social 
leader  is  he  who  will  reveal  to  me  the  truth,  and 
awaken  within  me  any  dormant  power.  The  light 
by  which  I  see,  if  I  see  at  all,  comes  to  me  not 
from  any  special  training;  but  it  has  illumined  and 
judged  and  set  its  seal  of  approval  or  condemna- 
tion upon  every  book,  every  teacher,  every  word. 
And  this  light  is  in  me  because  it  is  in  every  man ; 
and  therefore  when  I  think  of  this  great  American 
nation,  of  which  I  also  am  glad  to  be  a  part,  I  say  of 
it  what  a  Catholic  lady,  a  member  of  the  French 
nobility,  once  said  of  the  French  nation  in  one  of 
its  political  crises,  — 

"  This  people  has  shown  itself  so  amenable  to  reason 
in  so  many  difficult  circumstances,  that  I  believe  in  its 
true  progress.  All  the  confidence  I  have  rests  on  this 
public  reason,  which  has  no  proper  name  of  its  own,  but 
which  we  have  seen  concentrate  in  itself  alone  resolution- 
and  strength." 

The  people  to  get  only  the  guidance  which  comes 
from  their  natural  leaders  !  But  what  if  this  supe- 
rior position  and  select  training  are  the  very  obsta- 
cles which  shut  these  leaders'  eyes  and  close  their 


IN  SOCIAL  REFORMS.  279 

ears?  Why  is  it  that  so  many,  with  every  advan- 
tage of  birth  and  education,  fail  to  speak  the  right 
word  when  any  crisis  comes,  and  thus  cease  to  be 
the  leaders  of  men?  It  is  because  they  are  out  of 
that  main  current  which  runs  onward  to  the  open 
sea,  and  every  little  eddy  whirls  them  about  and 
turns  them  aside.  Out  of  the  steadily  blowing 
trade-wind,  the  stateliest  ship  must  lie  with  flapping 
sails  and  groaning  timbers  in  the  region  of  baffling 
winds  or  unchanging  calm,  while  the  fleets  of  little 
boats  speed  along  to  their  destined  haven.  Napo- 
leon the  First  was  a  wonderful  genius;  but  the 
genius  of  humanity  is  more  wonderful  than  he. 
That  prison  of  isolated  rock  in  mid-ocean  was  the 
true  symbol  of  his  real  isolation  from  the  great 
world  of  human  tendencies  and  social  needs.  What 
an  awful  revelation,  yet  with  such  pure  unconscious- 
ness of  what  its  real  meaning  was,  is  that  question 
of  his :  "  Is  not  the  statesman  wholly  an  eccentric 
personage,  always  alone  by  himself,  —  he  on  one 
side,  and  the  world  on  the  other?  "  Egoism  arising 
almost  to  sublimity  !  Contrast  it  with  the  utterance, 
"  Yet  am  I  not  alone,  for  the  Father  [the  ALL]  is 
with  me !  "  All  the  forces  of  love  and  truth  are 
working  with  him,  working  through  him,  and  work- 
ing for  him. 

Another  illustration  is  given  us  in  a  great  genius 
before  whose  power  we  have  all  bowed,  and  whose 
words  have  been  like  the  rustling  winds  in  the 
forest  of  pines,  —  Mr.  Ruskin.  He  asks  with  all 
imaginable  naivete,  — 


280  THE   COMMON  REASON 

"  How  it  is  that  well  educated  princes,  who  ought  to  be 
of  all  gentlemen  the  gentlest,  and  of  all  nobles  the  most 
generous,  and  whose  title  of  royalty  means  only  their 
function  of  doing  every  man  « right ; '  how  it  is  that 
these,  throughout  history,  should  so  rarely  pronounce 
themselves  on  the  side  of  the  poor  and  of  justice ; 
how  it  comes  to  pass  that  a  captain  will  die  with  his 
passengers,  and  leaning  over  the  gunwale  give  the  de- 
parting boat  its  course ;  but  that  a  king  will  not  usually 
die  with,  much  less  for,  HIS  passengers,  thinking  it  rather 
incumbent  on  them,  in  any  number,  to  die  for  htm, — 
think,  I  beseech  you,  of  the  wonder  of  this  ! " 

Yes,  let  us  think  of  it.  Who  are  these  princes 
and  kings?  Persons  cut  off  from  any  vital  connec- 
tion with  the  rest  of  humanity.  There  was  a  time 
when  Shakspeare  could  make  his  king  say,  —  a  king 
who  was  ready  to  die  with  and  for  his  fellow-Eng- 
lishmen, —  "  The  king,  too,  is  a  man  like  you."  But 
is  it  any  wonder  that  when  his  office  has  become 
merely  a  perfunctory  one,  when  all  his  virtue  con- 
sists in  his  aloofness  from  the  common  herd,  and 
when  from  the  earliest  moment  he  has  been  taught 
that  he  is  of  better  stuff  than  other  men,  —  is  it  any 
wonder  that  he  should  feel  it  incumbent  on  him  to 
preserve  by  all  means  that  delicate  and  precious 
porcelain,  while  the  coarse  clay-pots  may  look  out 
for  themselves?  To-day  something  else  besides 
the  accident  of  birth  determines  who  shall  govern 
the  ship,  the  factory,  the  railway,  and  the  church. 
How  would  the  divine  right  of  birth  answer  here? 

Then,  further,  it  is  treason  and  disloyalty  to  refuse 


IN  SOCIAL   REFORMS.  28 1 

to  serve  the  king!  But  is  it  not  equally  treason  and 
disloyalty  for  the  king  not  to  serve  the  people? 
Yet  how  can  he  serve  them  when  a  different  life- 
stream  flows  through  his  veins  ?  —  for  which  dif- 
ference he  must  pay  the  penalty.  Mr.  Ruskin  does 
not  see  why  a  poor  king  should  be  excused,  be- 
cause Mr.  Ruskin  himself  has  no  belief  in  the  com- 
mon reason  of  humanity,  but  only  in  the  institutions 
of  the  past.  He  once  gave  a  fine  definition  of  a 
noble  war:  "  A  noble  war  is  one  waged  simply  for 
the  defence  of  the  country  in  which  we  were  born, 
and  for  the  maintenance  and  execution  of  her  laws, 
by  whomsoever  threatened  or  defied."  Very  good ; 
but  how  was  it,  dear  Critic,  that  you  left  no  occa- 
sion unimproved  to  scoff  at  our  country  when  she 
poured  out  her  treasure  and  her  blood  to  maintain 
and  to  execute  her  laws,  threatened  and  defied? 
Why  was  your  vision  then  darkened?  Alas!  you 
believed  in  what  you  called  the  divine  right  of  born 
gentlemen,  not  in  the  human  right  of  God-inspired 
men;  you  believed  in  the  privileged  greatness  of 
the  few,  not  in  the  might  of  all.  You  had  no  belief 
in  the  people  as  the  instrument  of  that  wondrous 
power  which  evermore  sweeps  over  its  trembling 
strings ! 

More  wonderful  than  even  the  most  wonderful 
visionary  dreams  will  be  the  accomplished  facts,  if 
the  universal  principles  of  justice,  order,  and  human 
sympathies  are  ever  fully  embodied  in  the  every- 
day life  and  work, — just  as  the  wonders  of  steam, 
of  the  magnet,  and  of  electricity  now  surpass  the 


282        COMMON  REASON  IN  SOCIAL  REFORMS. 

wildest  fancies  of  the  Arabian  Nights.  Social  pro- 
gress has  but  just  begun ;  for  the  common  reason 
of  humanity  being  hitherto  in  abeyance,  men  have 
never  yet  combined  their  efforts  for  the  happiness 
and  well-being  of  all. 

But  the  trend  of  all  history  is  in  that  direction. 
The  energy  and  science  and  practical  skill  of  the 
human  race  are  to  be  employed  in  the  service  of 
common  reason,  if  not  of  philanthropy;  and  then 
will  be  more  than  realized  the  most  enthusiastic 
dreams  of  social  welfare.  Read  the  account  of 
some  Woolwich  arsenal  with  its  hundred  spreading 
acres;  its  sixty  steam-engines;  its  miles  of  shaft- 
ing; its  running  gear  for  a  thousand  complicated 
machines;  its  ten  thousand  workmen,  all  busy  in 
making  engines  of  ruin,  —  engines  to  be  used  for 
destroying  human  life  and  laying  waste  the  results 
of  human  industry,  —  and  say  what  shall  come  to 
pass  when  there  shall  be  the  combined  and  scien- 
tific adaptation  of  skill  and  machinery  to  the  benefit, 
and  not  to  the  harm,  of  the  human  family ! 

Most  heartily  do  we  agree  with  Professor  Jowett, 
the  learned  translator  of  Plato  and  of  Aristotle, 
that  "there  is  no  absurdity  in  expecting  that  the 
mass  of  mankind  having  the  power  in  their  own 
hands,  and  becoming  enlightened  about  the  higher 
possibilities  of  human  life,  when  they  come  to  see 
how  much  more  is  attainable  for  all  than  is  at 
present  the  possession  of  a  favored  few,  may  pursue 
the  common  interest  with  an  intelligence  and  per- 
sistency which  the  world  has  not  yet  seen." 


XV. 

HISTORY  AS  DEVELOPMENT. 

"  WHAT  is  it,"  says  the  Chevalier  Bunsen,  "  to  write 
a  chapter  of  the  universal  history  of  mankind  but  to 
recompose  a  canto  of  that  most  sacred  epic  of  which 
God  is  the  poet,  humanity  the  hero,  and  the  histo- 
rian the  interpreter  ?  "  What  other  than  this  can 
history  be  if  the  life  of  humanity  is  an  unfolding  of 
a  divine  spirit?  For  the  natural  world  is  no  more  a 
transcript  of  divine  thought  than  is  the  social  world, 
all  whose  parts  are  streamlets  running  into  the  one 
ocean  of  universal  history.  We  may  call  this  poem 
of  history  an  epic  or  a  drama:  as  a  serene  past,  it  is 
the  former ;  as  acted  in  the  present,  it  is  the  latter. 
//,  no  less  than  material  phenomena,  is  the  revelation 
of  an  infinite  variety  of  facts  and  processes,  under 
which  lie  unity,  order,  and  progressive  life. 

History  is  of  value,  then,  as  being  the  record  of 
the  spiritual  or  infinite  element  in  humanity.  Just 
as  everything  in  the  natural  world  has  life  so  far  as 
in  some  individual  form  it  expresses  the  universal 
life,  so  every  human  being  has  life  so  far  as  in  some 
individual  form  /^embodies  the  universal  life.  This 
universal  life  finds  its  highest  expression  in  society; 
that  is,  in  laws,  arts,  business,  and  various  social  in- 


284  HISTORY  AS  DEVELOPMENT. 

stitutions.  If  there  were  no  recorded  history,  there 
could  be  no  continuity  of  social  life  and  no  con- 
sciousness of  a  higher  destiny.  Historical  develop- 
ment is  simply  man's  growth  in  individuality  and 
freedom.  In  an  Oriental  despotism  there  is  but 
little  individuality;  all  look  alike  and  act  alike,  as  a 
school  of  herring  or  a  herd  of  buffaloes.  At  the 
opposite  extreme  is  a  true  democracy,  where  each 
man  is  distinctly  himself,  and  in  obeying  the  univer- 
sal will  obeys  consciously  the  common  reason  em- 
bodied in  his  own  thought. 

In  the  so-called  democracies  of  Greece  and  Rome 
and  the  Italian  cities,  there  was  nothing  like  the  form 
of  society  which  we  have  arrived  at  to-day.  It  is 
futile  to  point  to  them  now,  and  say  that  we  have 
no  more  surety  of  surviving  than  they.  The  demo- 
cracies of  the  past  were  but  another  form  of  exter- 
nal government ;  they  were  not  the  developments 
of  the  spiritual  nature  of  man,  becoming  embodied 
in  the  only  form  adapted  to  inherent,  living  powers. 
That  our  form  of  government  secures  to  us  the  most 
and  the  greatest  material  advantages,  is  not  the  chief 
claim  which  it  should  have  in  our  eyes:  while  it 
does  this,  it  does  infinitely  more.  But  if  we  could 
have  ten  times  the  material  good  secured  to  us  by 
arrangements  in  which  we  had  no  participation,  we 
should  reject  such  an  external  bountifulness ;  for  its 
price  would  be  our  manhood  and  our  free  conscious- 
ness, —  in  other  words,  of  our  capacity  for  growth 
and  indefinite  progress.  To  be  complete  up  to  a 
certain  point,  and  to  have  this  completeness  formed 


HISTORY  AS  DEVELOPMENT.  285 

for  us  from  without,  would  be  to  reduce  us  to  the 
range  of  mere  animal  instinct;  and  there we  should 
remain  fixed  forever.  But  history  shows  us  that 
man  has  forever  been  making  mistakes,  —  sad  mis- 
takes, foolish  mistakes,  wicked  mistakes,  — yet  that 
he  has  had  the  ability  to  correct  these  mistakes,  to 
become  as  it  were  a  new  creature,  alive  with  the  life 
of  the  creative  spirit.  This  is  the  only  progress ;  and 
this  is  the  process  unfolded  in  history. 

As  simply  a  form  of  repressive  government  to  im- 
pose regulations  from  without,  to  restrain  and  direct 
men,  a  democratic  form  of  government  may  easily 
be  the  poorest  of  all  forms.  But  as  the  embodi- 
ment of  the  conscious  reason  abiding  in  the  social 
body  and  seeking  an  expression  for  itself,  a  demo- 
cratic form  is  the  only  fitting  one.  Whatever  social 
changes  may  be  needed  to  embody  perfectly  the 
universal  life,  those  changes  will  come,  must  come ; 
for  the  divine  in  man  must  find  a  development  in 
every  word  and  work.  The  infinite  ocean  must  flow 
into  every  creek,  inlet,  harbor,  and  bay.  All  the 
spheres  of  education,  law,  art,  and  industry  must 
become  organic  forms  of  harmonious  life. 

In  this  light  of  historical  development,  all  the  so- 
cialistic plans  must  be  looked  upon  as  utterly  inad- 
equate and  incomplete,  because  they  cut  away  the 
very  veins  and  sinews  through  which  man  is  related 
to  the  universal  life ;  they  destroy  individuality  and 
freedom ;  they  reduce  men  and  women  to  an  indis- 
tinguishable mass.  They  would  do  for  man  and 
over  man  what  must  be  done  by  him  and  through 


286  HISTORY  AS  DEVELOPMENT. 

him.  Yet  every  socialistic  demand  is  a  recurring 
admonition  that  we  are  what  history  shows  us  to 
be,  —  members  of  one  common  body,  receivers  of 
one  divine  life. 

For  thousands  of  years  the  human  race  has  been 
toiling,  scheming,  thinking,  aspiring,  embodying  as 
it  could,  from  day  to  day,  its  visions  and  its  plans. 
In  the  social  world  have  been  contests  as  great, 
struggles  as  vast,  as  have  ever  taken  place  in  the 
natural  and  physical  universe.  Is  any  one  man 
adequate  to  say  what  shall  be  the  crystallization 
to  take  place  from  this  mingling  of  substances? 
Each  of  us  can  imagine  some  state  of  things 
which  should  be  without  this  annoyance  or  that 
pain,  in  which  there  should  be  no  disease,  no  sor- 
row, no  ill,  —  for  to  dream  is  the  easiest  of  things. 
Looked  at  aright,  the  history  of  humanity  is  the 
story  of  aspiration  rather  than  of  accomplishment. 
What  finally  has  been  accomplished  has  been  far 
different  from  what  often  was  aimed  at,  and  far 
grander  than  was  ever  dreamed.  Great  Britain 
started  a  commercial  company  to  gather  in  the  ru- 
pees of  India,  and  now  a  vast  empire  is  committed 
to  her  guidance  and  her  rule.  Our  forefathers 
thought  to  find  a  place  where  they  could  worship 
unmolested,  and  build  up,  after  their  own  ideal  pat- 
tern, a  little  vestibule  to  heaven ;  but  an  indwelling 
spirit,  wiser  and  more  far-seeing  than  all,  thwarted 
their  narrow  plans,  and  built  up  this  Western  temple, 
in  which  all  the  creeds  of  Christendom  and  Heathen- 
dom alike  should  find  a  home. 


HISTORY  AS  DEVELOPMENT.  287 

Saint-Simon  had  his  dream  of  an  industrial  so- 
ciety with  its  chief,  whose  legitimate  authority  all 
would  acknowledge  because  he  was  confessedly  the 
chief,  and  whom  all  would  freely  obey  because  all 
held  him  in  love ;  where  perfect  order  would  reign, 
and  no  workman  be  without  guidance  and  help; 
where  all  should  have  the  necessary  tools,  and  all 
be  employed  in  congenial  work ;  where  one  should 
no  longer  use  another  as  an  instrument  to  his 
own  private  good,  but  all  should  seek  to  beautify 
the  earth  by  their  united  labors,  and  to  make  all  the 
riches  of  the  earth  a  common  inheritance.  Though 
the  particular  form  which  that  dream  assumed  may 
be  an  illusion,  and  its  fulfilment  cannot  come  in  the 
way  that  was  dreamed  of,  yet  by  all  the  sacred  pages 
of  the  past  history  of  our  race,  the  living  spirit  of 
humanity  shall  triumph  in  a  way  that  is  infinitely 
beyond  man's  limited  schemes. 

There  is  no  short  cut  to  establish  permanently 
even  the  highest  and  most  perfect  form  of  political 
and  social  life.  Progress  is  neither  in  a  straight 
line  nor  in  a  circle  returning  to  the  same  point ;  it 
is  a  spiral  movement,  so  that  when  you  seem  to  be 
going  the  same  round  you  are  really  on  a  higher 
plane.  Though  in  the  natural  world  you  may  not 
be  able  to  say  where  is  the  boundary  line  between 
mineral  and  plant,  between  plant  and  animal,  be- 
tween animal  and  man,  each  stage  of  organic 
life  is  on  a  higher  plane  than  the  preceding,  and 
there  is  an  advance  from  the  simpler  to  the  more 
complex  forms. 


288  HISTORY  AS  DEVELOPMENT. 

So  in  humanity  itself  there  is  the  elimination,  step 
by  step,  of  what  belonged  to  a  lower  stage  of  devel- 
opment; and  though  there  may  be  carried  along 
with  the  advance  many  of  the  rudimentary  organs, 
they  have  ceased  to  dominate  the  life  or  make  essen- 
tial a  special  method  of  existence.  Outgrown  shells 
are  left  behind ;  useless  appendages  are  dropped. 
Feudalism  was  once  the  best  form  in  which  hu- 
manity could  find  expression  for  its  needs ;  it  was 
a  natural,  orderly,  and  beneficent  crystallization  of 
the  desires,  hopes,  and  ideals  of  the  time ;  hamlet 
and  village  sheltered  themselves  under  the  protec- 
tion of  castle  and  feudal  lord.  But  when  trade  and 
commerce  grew  up,  when  the  middle  classes  asserted 
their  right  to  be,  the  castle  became  a  den  of  rob- 
bers, an  incubus  upon  the  earth.  So  monastic  in- 
stitutions, —  the  natural  and  spontaneous  product 
of  social  and  spiritual  needs  in  special  conditions, 
—  were  once  a  blessing  and  were  blessed.  But  that 
peculiar  need  has  passed  away,  and  monastic  walls 
and  monastic  rules  remain  only  to  warp  and  pervert 
man's  higher  aspirations,  —  to  witness  useless  mor- 
tifications, half-believing  prayers,  and  silent  curses 
of  dehumanized  devotees.  When  privileged  classes 
or  orders  only  suck  up  the  life-blood  of  humanity, 
when  they  render  no  service  in  return,  they  must 
yield  their  place  ;  for  to  retain  the  privileges  and 
shirk  the  price  by  which  alone  they  were  bestowed, 
what  is  that  ? 

Service  to  humanity  is  the  condition  of  every 
form  of  embodiment  in  social  life.  Through  priest 


HISTORY  AS  DEVELOPMENT.  289 

and  lord,  through  merchant  and  mechanic,  through 
soldier  and  artist,  humanity  seeks  to  unfold  its  own 
inner  life,  its  indwelling  capacities  of  love  and  wis- 
dom. Hence  there  must  be  many  attempts  before 
the  final  success ;  there  must  be  defeats  before  any 
great  victory  is  attained.  That  his  muscles  should 
be  made  strong  is  the  real  prize  that  the  gymnast 
wins ;  that  his  moral  powers  should  be  unfolded  is 
worth  more  to  a  true  man  than  any  external  suc- 
cess ;  and  that  humanity  should  have  heroes,  mar- 
tyrs, and  saints  is  better  than  selfish  comfort  and 
bestial  content.  Therefore  the  way  of  progress  is 
not  strewn  with  flowers;  the  ascent  is  steep,  the 
friendly  stars  seem  hidden.  Great  sacrifices  to  be 
made  call  forth  the  great  souls  to  make  them.  In- 
numerable lives  must  pay  the  price  of  victory;  and, 
as  Guizot  says,  "  it  is  only  after  an  unknown  number 
of  unrecorded  labors,  after  a  host  of  noble  hearts 
have  succumbed  in  discouragement,  convinced  that 
the  cause  is  lost,  —  it  is  then  only  that  the  cause 
triumphs." 

Men  sometimes  see  their  best  efforts  thwarted, 
and  the  good  that  has  been  sought  for  with  infi- 
nite toil  seized  upon  as  a  means  of  harm.  The 
liberty  for  which  pure  hearts  labored  and  prayed 
is  sometimes  turned  into  license  ;  the  truth  hailed 
as  the  dawn  of  some  glorious  day  becomes  a  thick 
pall  over  the  midday  sky  ;  the  banner  on  which  pure 
hands  have  wrought,  which  tears  have  consecrated, 
and  the  morning  light  has  seen  thrown  out  joyously 
to  the  breeze,  is  borne  aloft  at  evening  by  the 

19 


290  HISTORY  AS  DEVELOPMENT. 

advancing  hosts  of  anarchy  and  crime.  But  has 
naught  been  gained  ?  Has  not  defeat  been  the 
means  to  a  success  greater  than  was  at  first 
dreamed  of  ? 

To  the  physical  world  great  cycles  of  ages  alone 
suffice  for  some  new  stage  of  growth;  and  why  be 
impatient  for  the  moral  and  social  world  ?  Ideal 
truths  belong  to  a  realm  of  infinity ;  and  what  may 
be  the  special  good  accomplished  through  this  or 
that  means  no  human  insight  can  determine.  One 
man's  failure  may  be  as  needful  as  another's  success. 
He  who  always  succeeds  in  what  he  attempts  may 
be  sure  that  in  his  attempts  no  grand  ideal  purpose 
is  involved.  It  is  noble  to  fail  in  some  great  cause ; 
it  is  noble  to  fail  where  one's  aim  is  so  high  that 
one  short  life  is  all  insufficient  to  realize  it  in  his 
human  environment;  it  is  divine  to  have  aspira- 
tions so  great  and  principles  so  broad  that  only 
ages  of  the  coming  time  shall  look  upon  them  as 
accomplished  facts.  But  has  any  good  cause  ever 
failed  ?  In  one  place  and  at  one  time  it  may  seem 
to  have  failed,  to  have  died  and  been  buried.  But 
no  man  and  no  people  have  labored  for  good  utterly 
to  no  purpose.  When  the  flower  perishes,  the  seed 
is  scattered  abroad  and  the  harvest  springs  up, 
though  perhaps  in  distant  lands.  "  How  I  love," 
says  Alfred  Vaughan,  "  to  find  examples  of  that 
consoling  truth  that  no  well-meant  effort  for  God 
and  man  can  ever  really  die !  that  the  relics  of 
vanished,  vanquished  endeavors  are  gathered  up 
and  conserved,  and  by  the  spiritual  chemistry  of 


HISTORY  AS  DEVELOPMENT.  2gi 

Providence  are  transformed    into   a   new  life  in   a 


new  age 


There  is  a  transmigration  of  ideas,  if  not  of  sepa- 
rate souls.  Though  institutions  die,  that  which  they 
were  meant  to  embody  still  lives.  Forms  of  civi- 
lized life  perish ;  but  the  soul  which  informed  them 
inspires  new  institutions,  new  systems  of  polity,  new 
philosophies,  new  customs  and  arts.  Bravery,  roy- 
alty, thought,  faith,  do  not  die  with  the  knight,  the 
king,  the  philosopher,  the  monk,  in  whom  each  once 
found  an  adequate  exponent.  Cathedrals  crumble 
to  dust  and  priesthoods  disappear,  but  reverence 
and  love  survive.  The  feudal  castle  is  tumbled  into 
the  moat,  and  the  throne  is  consumed  in  fire  ;  but 
order  and  law  embody  themselves  in  larger  forms. 
The  real  life-giving  principle  in  every  human  organi- 
zation —  that  which  gave  it  birth  and  kept  it  sound 
—  does  not  die  with  the  men,  the  institutions,  but 
disappears  only  to  be  manifest  in  some  better  em- 
bodiment, some  more  perfectly  adapted  form. 

Pythagoras  and  Plato  moulded  the  living  princi- 
ples of  Oriental  wisdom  into  Greek  classic  beauty 
and  practical  use.  The  Roman  Church  shaped  into 
a  mighty  whole  the  spiritual  secrets  of  Buddha  and 
Brahma,  of  Egypt  and  Greece,  of  Phoenicia  and  Pal- 
estine. The  Protestant  Reformation  created  a  new 
world  for  free,  unlimited  development  of  every  seed 
that  has  in  it  the  germ  of  life.  As  the  prophetic  soul 
of  Milton  saw,  the  people  of  England  were  transport- 
ing in  his  day  "  a  plant  of  more  beneficial  qualities 
and  more  noble  growth  than  that  which  Triptolemus 


292  HISTORY  AS  DEVELOPMENT. 

was  reported  to  have  carried  from  region  to  region." 
And  that  we  have  such  an  inheritance  of  rich  and 
manifold  elements  from  the  past — all  ages  and  all 
generations  —  is  the  surest  pledge  of  a  grand  de- 
velopment not  hitherto  attained. 

Life  has  always  been  rich,  potent,  and  assimi- 
lating as  it  has  been  the  resultant  of  complex, 
numerous,  and  manifold  component  elements.  One 
individual,  one  tribe,  one  nation,  of  itself  and  by 
itself,  has  little  capacity  for  growth  and  progress. 
Hellas  owed  its  fuller  development  to  the  variety 
of  its  constituent  germs  ;  Rome,  to  its  power  of 
assimilating  and  incorporating  different  elements  ; 
England,  to  the  movements  resulting  from  the  con- 
tests, the  action  and  reaction,  of  races,  classes,  in- 
terests, and  occupations.  And  America  to-day  is 
projecting  in  colossal  form  what  these  display  in 
miniature.  The  very  idea  of  universal  history  forces 
itself  upon  us  from  our  condition  as  a  nation.  What 
a  commingling  here  of  all  that  mother  earth  has 
produced  of  blood,  language,  religion,  industry, 
science,  and  art !  Our  national  life  is  a  heated  fur- 
nace to  melt  into  a  glowing  mass  the  rough  ores 
that  are  poured  into  its  open  mouth,  to  be  hard- 
ened and  tempered  into  steel.  The  number,  the 
diversity,  the  free  play,  the  interaction,  of  physical, 
social,  and  moral  influences, —  no  one  can  imagine 
it !  Can  the  result  be  other  than  a  human  develop- 
ment broader  than  has  ever  before  been  witnessed? 
A  true  cosmopolitanism  must  be  the  issue  of  a 
variety  of  elements  so  rich  and  manifold,  subordi- 


HISTORY  AS  DEVELOPMENT.  293 

nated  and  moulded  as  they  all  are  by  the  one 
principle  of  individual  manhood,  the  common  at- 
mosphere of  freedom  to  think,  to  speak,  to  worship, 
and  to  vote. 

Hitherto  war,  invasion,  and  trade  have  been  the 
rude  means  by  which  the  stagnant  pools  have  been 
stirred  and  the  incrusted  surfaces  have  been  broken 
up.  But  to-day  the  relation  is  more  direct  There 
is  action  and  reaction  between  the  remotest  parts  of 
the  globe.  Each  portion  of  the  race  begins  to  feel 
its  need  of  all  the  others ;  each  to  be  aware,  in  some 
way  however  faint  and  imperfect,  that  it  can  pro- 
mote the  prosperity  of  all  by  being  faithful  to  its  own 
peculiar  service.  That  phrase  "  oneness  of  human- 
ity" has  been  uttered.  The  spiritual  philosopher 
proclaims  that  "  the  whole  human  race  exists  as  one 
man  before  God."  Daniel  Webster  said,  from  his 
position  as  a  statesman :  "  Each  nation  has  the  same 
interest  in  the  preservation  of  the  laws  of  nations 
that  each  individual  has  in  the  preservation  of  the 
laws  of  his  country."  Never  before  could  such  a 
sentiment  meet  with  such  a  universal  response  as 
now,  when  the  broader  the  sentiment  the  more  en- 
thusiastic its  reception.  A  common  consciousness 
is  awakened  by  the  common  life,  and  an  event  that 
deeply  touches  one  people  touches  some  chords  of 
sympathy  in  every  people's  heart.  Walls  and  bar- 
riers fall  down ;  mysteries  become  open  secrets ; 
the  wisdom  of  the  wise  is  inherited  by  all;  the 
results  of  industry  and  thought  are  brought  to  a 
common  mart,  and  will  be  more  and  more  freely 


294  HISTORY  AS  DEVELOPMENT. 

interchanged  between  people  and  people,  —  every 
invention  passing  from  mind  to  mind  and  from 
hand  to  hand. 

Does  it  indicate  nothing  that  humanity  now  rises 
above  the  horizon  as  the  ideal  of  human  souls?  To 
know  man,  his  faculties,  his  wants,  his  hindrances, 
and  his  helps,  —  this  is  education;  to  love  him  and 
labor  for  him,  —  this  is  religion ;  to  impart  to  him 
beauty  in  every  sphere  of  life,  —  this  is  art ;  to  en- 
rich him  and  add  to  his  means  of  comfort  and  well- 
being,  —  this  is  industry.  From  this  ideal  the  stir- 
ring life  of  the  present  takes  its  tone,  its  direction, 
its  real  force.  Genius  builds  methods  of  education, 
not  rituals  and  elaborate  ceremonials ;  arranges  na- 
tional exhibitions,  not  fields  of  golden  cloth  where 
monarchs  spend  the  income  of  their  subjects;  con- 
structs palaces  for  the  million,  not  luxurious  abodes 
for  a  king.  It  devises  amelioration  for  human  suf- 
fering, not  splendid  pageants  of  Oriental  adoration. 
The  vital  efficiency  of  every  movement  is  in  propor- 
tion to  its  enthronement  of  this  ideal.  The  "  cry 
of  the  human"  is  not  from  some  solitary  dungeon, 
or  from  some  one  grand  martyr  upon  the  cross ; 
it  comes  from  the  fields  and  the  streets,  from  the 
church  and  the  workshop,  from  the  college  and  from 
legislative  halls.  The  demand  for  the  removal  of 
social  hindrances,  for  a  juster  distribution  of  the 
profits  of  industry,  for  universal  education,  for  the 
relief  of  suffering  and  want,  is  in  conformity  with 
this  ideal,  —  and  so  must  receive  a  fitting  re- 
sponse ;  for  no  ideal  that  has  inspired  humanity 


HISTORY  AS  DEVELOPMENT.  295 

has  ever  yet  failed  of  being  actualized  in  outward 
forms. 

The  change  into  a  higher  form  of  social  life  is 
necessarily  accompanied  by  the  decay  and  death  of 
what  has  previously  enshrined  the  aspirations  and 
hopes  of  man.  The  night  of  an  old  civilization 
seems  to  grow  darker  and  darker  just  before  the 
dawning  of  a  new,  —  recalling  the  old  pious  French 
proverb,  which  says,  "  Patience !  it  is  when  the  de- 
mon has  said  his  last  word,  that  God  speaks."  Per- 
haps an  instinctive  perception  of  this  has  placed  the 
birth-time  of  him  in  whom  the  "  enthusiasm  of  hu- 
manity" was  a  ruling  passion,  and  whose  luminous 
place  in  the  history  of  our  race  marks  a  broad  line 
of  division  between  the  setting  of  old  hopes  and  the 
rising  of  new  in  the  soul  of  man,  in  that  season  of 
midwinter  when  the  sun  shines  only  with  slanting 
beams,  when  the  daylight  is  shortest,  and  the  frost- 
bound  forces  of  creative  Nature  seem  asleep  or  dead. 
A  dark  hour  was  that  when  thousands  and  tens  of 
thousands  fled  from  Germany,  England,  and  France ; 
but  it  preceded  the  light  of  free  institutions  in  this 
western  hemisphere.  When  in  our  own  country 
overbearing  power  celebrated  its  crowning  triumph 
in  the  fugitive-slave  law,  the  dawn  of  the  day  of 
universal  freedom  was  very  near.  So  in  every  age 
the  lesson  is  taught  that  only  the  surface  changes, 
while  humanity  abides  forever,  —  gaining  strength 
from  weakness,  triumph  from  defeat! 

There  is  always  movement  and  change,  even  if  it 
be  not  always  progress.  No  more  in  the  social  than 


296  HISTORY  AS  DEVELOPMENT. 

in  the  natural  world  is  there  absolute  rest.  Even 
when  the  eye  seems  to  look  out  upon  an  unvarying 
landscape,  great  alterations  are  taking  place,  —  con- 
tinents are  forming,  mountains  are  upheaving,  oceans 
are  changing  their  bed, .each  particle  of  solid  rock  is 
in  motion,  lakes  are  filling  up,  forests  are  growing, 
deserts  are  becoming  gardens,  and  prairies  are  be- 
coming populous  cities.  The  old  is  ever  passing 
away,  and  the  new  is  emerging.  The  causes  that 
produce  revolutions  are  ever  at  work;  the  earth- 
quake is  gathering  force,  the  volcano  is  dying  out. 
So  beliefs  are  becoming  obsolete ;  power  is  changing 
hands;  new  faiths  are  studding  the  firmament  of 
man's  life.  This  continual  movement  in  the  uni- 
verse Goethe  thus  enunciates  :  — 

"  It  must  go  on,  creating,  changing, 
Through  endless  shapes  forever  ranging, 
And  rest  we  only  seem  to  see. 
The  eternal  lives  through  all  revolving, 
For  all  must  ever  keep  dissolving 
Would  it  continue  still  to  be." 

Cowper  has  also  well  stated  it :  — 

"  Constant  rotation  of  the  unwearied  wheel 
That  Nature  rides  upon  maintains  her  health, 
Her  beauty,  her  fertility.     She  dreads 
An  instant's  pause,  and  lives  but  while  she  moves." 

Long  ago  Plato  said,  "  Everything  mortal  is  pre- 
served, not  by  its  being  in  every  respect  the  same 
forever,  but  by  the  thing  that  is  departing  leaving 


HISTORY  AS  DEVELOPMENT.  297 

some  new  thing  like  itself,"  -  —  and  this  is  true, 
though  every  external  form,  everything  possessed 
of  the  instinct  of  life,  shrinks  from  this  renewing 
power,  distrusts  the  spirit,  hardly  believing  that  it 
can  furnish  a  better  habitation,  fairer  scenes,  or 
more  beautiful  forms.  To  this  persistent  mutabil- 
ity and  perpetual  change  we  owe  the  idea  of  one 
spirit  of  humanity,  one  absolute  order,  one  perva- 
sive wisdom,  one  ruling  mind.  We  see  that  no 
development  is  independent  and  alone;  no  condi- 
tion has  inherent  force  in  itself ;  no  being  has 
essential  permanence  and  life.  All  events  are  re- 
lated and  dependent ;  and  all  the  doings  of  the  race 
must  be  referred  to  a  common  unity,  —  one  source 
of  order  and  life,  one  inspiring  spirit  of  humanity, 
one  power  accomplishing  through  infinite  changes 
its  vast  designs. 

To  arrive  at  some  final  goal  in  truth  and  at  com- 
plete happiness  and  well-being  would  bring  to  an 
end  all  development  or  progress,  and  so  would  be 
death.  It  is  essential  that  an  ideal  goodness, 
beauty,  truth,  should  still  lure  us  on.  Whatever 
form  of  these  is  attained  will  not  completely  satisfy, 
but  as  contrasted  with  that  ideal  will  always  ap- 
pear to  lack  some  perfection,  and  will  at  length  be 
called  evil,  —  and  when  it  once  comes  into  the  con- 
sciousness as  evil,  its  doom  is  sealed.  To  feel  one's 
ignorance  is  the  first  step  to  knowledge;  to  feel 
one's  imperfection  is  the  beginning  of  a  nobler 
life.  So  with  social  evils,  or  those  institutions  and 
general  methods  of  life  which  are  seen  to  work 


298  HISTORY  AS  DEVELOPMENT. 

evil  and  not  good  to  the  organization  that  we  call 
the  commonwealth,  —  when  once  they  are  seen  to 
be  evils,  there  is  no  lasting  peace  until  they  are 
brought  into  harmony  with  the  new  and  higher  ideal. 
As  that  future  is  also  the  heir  of  the  infinite,  our 
present  good  may  wear  to  it  the  form  of  evil. 

The  discoveries  of  our  day  in  science  and  art  are 
wonderful,  but  the  ideas  which  underlie  them  are 
more  wonderful  still.  Railway  and  telegraph  are 
great  as  mechanical  inventions,  but  greater  in  what 
they  suggest  and  symbolize,  —  the  intercommunica- 
tion of  national  thought  and  life.  How  impossible 
for  them  to  have  existed  in  any  known  period  of 
the  past !  What  scope  can  there  be  for  inventive 
genius  under  the  protection  of  absolute  power  and 
the  enslavement  of  man?  What  field  for  the  free 
play  of  human  faculties  can  exist  among  poor  and 
ignorant  masses,  toiling  for  bare  subsistence  when 
they  can  be  spared  from  the  battle-field?  What 
opportunity  can  be  offered  for  combined  action 
when  there  is  no  mutual  confidence  and  trust? 
The  external  results  and  physical  wonders  of  our  era 
point  to  something  higher  than  themselves,  and  are 
far  more  wonderful  as  indications  than  even  as  facts. 
They  are  a  pledge  of  mental,  moral,  and  spiritual 
conditions  that  must  accompany  the  mechanical  and 
external  benefit. 

In  a  recent  book  on  "  Power  and  Liberty,"  Tol- 
stoY  rightly  calls  history  "  a  science  of  the  move- 
ments of  peoples  and  of  humanity,  not  a  description 
of  episodes  in  the  lives  of  a  few  men."  In  this  light 


HISTORY  AS  DEVELOPMENT.  299 

every  human  life  is  great,  as  sharing  in  the  one  life 
that  manifests  itself  in  every  racial  movement, —  is 
infinitely  little,  when  taken  as  a  cause  by  itself,  an 
independent  factor  or  power.  History  is  not  the 
achievement  of  some  few  great  men,  but  of  all  the 
men  who  make  up  at  any  one  moment  the  living 
forces  of  human  tendency.  As  a  coral  reef  is  the 
combined  work  of.  an  infinity  of  living  agents,  so 
the  social  state  at  any  point  of  time  is  the  com- 
bination of  all  the  forces  embodied  in  the  forms  of 
living  men  and  women ;  not  one  is  so  small  as 
to  be  left  out.  When  we  have  given  up  the  study 
of  the  particular  cause  of  this  and  that  phenome- 
non in  the  vast  world  of  phenomena  which  we  call 
universal  history,  and  seek  simply  for  the  mani- 
fested laws  or  methods  of  operation,  we  shall  find 
that  the  social  development  is  as  truly  a  cosmos, 
a  sphere  of  beautiful  and  harmonious  order,  as  is 
this  physical  universe  in  which  we  struggle  during 
our  little  day. 


THE  END. 


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